The Return
by mebfeath
Summary: A post-'The Reckoning' story. Peter does a deal for Assumpta's life - but does the deal require him to be the martyr he thought? As someone else has said, everyone has their story to tell.
1. Chapter 1

'Is this it, then?' he screamed at the sky. 'Punishment? Punishment for something _You_ did?' He grabbed at the white collar around his neck, yanking it from its place. He took one look at it before throwing it into the river. 'You say you're a God of love. What we had was love. A love you gave us.' Peter leant his head against the cold, wet bricks of the bridge. 'Why did you let me fall in love with her if You were going to take her from me? You're no God of love. You're just cruel,' he spat. He slowly pulled his head up from the bricks, the rage inside of him now uncontrollable.

'Bring. Her. Back,' he said quietly to the sky. 'I did nothing wrong. You bring her BACK,' he yelled, his voice rising at the end. There was silence as the rain continued to fall. He looked up to the sky, the arms he had raised above his head in anger falling back to his sides.

'Is that what you want? You want a priest who doesn't believe?' he whispered quietly. 'Because I don't. I believe in You, but I don't believe in the Church. Not anymore.' He shook his head and leant wearily against the bridge, his eyes closed.

'If you bring her back, I'll devote my life to You. The rest of my life. I promise. Just don't take her away,' he whispered.

Peter stumbled out across the road, his eyes blurred by the tears that kept coming. God wasn't listening to him. God had stopped listening to him. This was his punishment, and he had to bear it. He kept walking, one foot in front of the other. He had no idea where he was going, and he didn't care; he just had to keep moving. If he stopped, the pain would overwhelm him. He couldn't let that happen; it would kill him. He was vaguely aware of light, somewhere…getting closer. He turned around to see the headlights of the Ambulance. He just stared, dazzled. Maybe if he stood in the way, if he stopped it from leaving Ballykissangel, maybe she'd come back to him.

Before he knew it, Michael was at his arm. 'Peter!' Peter just stared at the approaching figure. 'Come on. Come on!' Michael tugged at his arm, and Peter allowed himself to be led. He was walking around the ambulance. Peter was vaguely aware of the rain falling; it was cold on his hot face. Michael led him around to the back of the ambulance and opened the door, pulling on Peter to get in.

He couldn't.

His face cracked as a new wave of pain washed over him. He shook his head, pushing the doctor away. Michael grabbed at his jacket and shook him slightly, begging him to understand. Peter needed to do this. Someone needed to do this. She couldn't make this final journey alone. She couldn't leave Ballykissangel on her own.

'Stay with her.'

Peter looked at the doctor's face, recognising his own pain in the doctor's eyes. The doctor looked down, swallowing, patting Peter on the chest and nodding. Peter turned and climbed into the back of the ambulance, sitting on the bench opposite her body.

Her body.

He couldn't bear to look at her, but he couldn't take his eyes off her. Her face was the only thing uncovered. Her beautiful, white face. It wasn't as white as he had somehow expected; she still had some colour in her cheeks, and the little remaining lipstick gave her lips a life-like realism. The tears fell from his eyes, but he made no sound. He just stared at her beautiful face, somehow scared he'd forget it, but knowing he never would.

He felt cheated. Cheated out of life. Cheated that he wouldn't get to study the lines on her face, the curve of her smile, her bright eyes. He'd spent months studying it already, but he had wanted more. So much more.

He slowly reached out towards her face. His fingers made contact with her skin, and he jerked them back. She felt almost warm, even now. He reached out again, and brushed the side of her face with his fingers.

'Assumpta,' he whispered, his voice barely holding. The tears continued to fall, faster and faster. He blinked them away, willing himself to stop crying. He needed to memorise her face. Her beautiful, white face. His fingers continued to trace the outline of her jaw, her cheekbone, her cheek.

He pulled his hand away. He couldn't do it. The pain was too great; he felt like his chest was going to cave in, or explode. His face contorted with the pain, but he knew he had to. He wasn't going to get another opportunity. He slowly reached out, touching her cheek, running his fingers along her soft skin to her lips. The lips he had never kissed.

He suddenly jerked his hand back.

No, he was dreaming. His desperation was driving him to hallucinations. He shook his head, wiping his face with his hand, his eyes never leaving her face.

No. It was desperation that was making him crazy. He was going crazy. He didn't really care, either.

Suddenly it hit him, like a fist to the chest, and he fell on his knees, holding his ear to her mouth.

'She's breathing,' he whispered. 'Oh God.'

'She's breathing! MICHAEL! SHE'S BREATHING!' he screamed, banging against the thin sheet of plastic between the cabin and the driver. The ambulance brakes slammed on, and he was thrown against the wall of the cabin. He scrambled to his feet, grabbed at the sheet covering her torso and threw it to one side. 'Come on, Assumpta,' he whispered, as he leant his cheek over her mouth.

He felt the slightest breath of air caress his cheek before Michael had pushed him heavily out of the way. Michael put his hands to her neck, feeling around for a pulse. His eyes widened as he looked from Peter to the Ambulance officer. 'Adrenaline, now!' he shouted, tearing his wide eyes away from Peter's equally shocked face.

He sat, shocked, in the corner of the cabin, watching as Michael and the Ambulance officer hurried around Assumpta.

It couldn't be true. It couldn't be real. Peter stared at the once lifeless body of Assumpta Fitzgerald, the woman he loved. She was alive.

Michael thrust the keys to the Ambulance in Peter's face. 'Can you drive?' he said urgently. Peter just nodded dumbly. 'Drive us to the hospital in Cildargan. I'll ring and tell them we're coming,' Michael said loudly and deliberately. Peter nodded, scrambling past the two men and around the Ambulance. He climbed into the front seat and thrust the keys into the ignition, turning them roughly. The engine sprang to life, and he planted his foot to the floor. The ambulance lurched forward, and he heard a crash. He turned around briefly to see what had fallen, but he couldn't see much through the plastic. He turned around and focused on driving. He clenched his jaw, the tears no longer a problem.

'You win,' he said angrily, to no one in particular.

* * *

Assumpta eyes felt heavy. She didn't want to open them. She just wanted to sleep more. She started to slip back into unconsciousness when she realised the sounds around her weren't familiar. She'd heard them before, she knew, but they hadn't really registered. She'd just gone back to sleep, her eyes too heavy to open. But this time was different.

She slowly cracked her eyes open, only to shut them again. It was bright. She considered just going back to sleep – that was the easy option – but her curiosity got the better of her. She forced herself to open her eyes again, this time allowing her eyes time to adjust to the light before she opened them further. There was a window in front of her, with white curtains. The walls were cream, and there was a painting of…

This wasn't her room. She tried forcing her eyes open further, but they resisted, and she closed them. Instead she opened her mouth to speak.

'Peter…' she mumbled, almost silently. Peter would know what was going on. 'Peter,' she tried again.

She heard footsteps, and a voice. 'Assumpta? Assumpta, are you awake?' the voice asked.

Leo?

Assumpta felt the tiredness overwhelm her, and she succumbed to the darkness.

Leo raced out the door of the hospital room over to the nurses' station. 'She just said something,' he cried, and the nurse looked up at him. 'She just spoke,' he explained. The nurse quickly put down the paper she was holding, and followed him back into the room. She looked at the monitors; the heart rate had increased a few moments ago, but was slowly going back down again. The nurse looked down at her patient.

'Something happened, yes.' Leo clenched his jaw.

'I heard her speak,' he said, frustrated. The hospital had been very clear. Assumpta was not likely to wake up, they'd told him. She'd been dead too long. The brain had been deprived of oxygen for too long. If she did wake, she'd be a vegetable, not able to do anything for herself. Certainly wouldn't be walking and talking.

Leo had refused to believe them. He knew Assumpta; she would fight.

She had to fight.

He couldn't lose her again. He'd lost her once, and he was determined to win her back. All he needed was the opportunity.

The nurse gave him a small smile. 'What did she say?' she asked. Leo looked at the ground. He'd heard what she'd said, and was like a punch to the guts. But she'd spoken. At least he had something to work with.

'Just a name. Of a friend,' he added. 'Simple words.'

The nurse nodded. 'That's a positive sign, then. I'll let the doctor know,' she'd said, almost pityingly. Leo watched her leave, the frown still on his face.

* * *

'She said something?'

'That's what Leo said.'

'Well, there you go,' Brendan said, the self-satisfied smile etched on his face. 'I told you so.'

Niamh sighed. 'There's still a long way to go, Brendan,' she said, her voice filled with caution. Brendan's smiled dropped.

'Where's your faith? You know Assumpta. She'd be fighting with God, telling Him she can't go just now,' he said, the smile returning. Niamh gave him a wry smile in return, grabbing the tea towel from the bench.

'She'll be home any day now, you'll see,' Padraig said. 'To Assumpta!' he cried, raising his glass. They'd all taken to raising their glasses to Assumpta lately, and anything was an excuse. Any mention of her name saw at least three glasses charged, and often more. Niamh had fled the bar in tears one night when Padraig had shouted a toast to Assumpta to the full bar, every one of the patrons responding, standing with their glasses held high. It was their way of keeping their spirits up, she knew, but her heart was still raw, and it had been too much for her.

She wiped the bar down, removing some of the dirty glasses. She heard Sioban's quiet question to Brendan. 'Have you heard anything?'

She assumed the answer had been negative when the conversation failed to continue. Her shoulders slumped. Peter had left only a couple of days ago now, just after Keiran's christening. They'd all left the church and had congregated at Brian's for a celebration, but Peter had never arrived. Brendan had arrived late saying nothing more than that Peter had left Ballykissangel for Manchester at Father Mac's command. She suspected there had been more to it than that, but Brendan was not forthcoming. She'd known there was something going on; Assumpta hadn't been that happy in years. But she hadn't had time to ask before everything all went horribly wrong.

She scrubbed the glasses, pushing everything out of her mind. The less she thought about it the better.

* * *

_That's all for now! I'll upload the next chapter in the next day or two. I won't keep you in suspense for long._

_If you'd like, I'd appreciate a comment. Compliments and constructive criticism both welcome._


	2. Chapter 2

Peter sighed as the crisp English air buffeted his face. He was home.

Was he?

He wasn't sure where home was anymore. It had been Ballyk…up until a few days ago. He couldn't stay, not when she would be there. Peter wasn't stupid; he knew the effect she had on him. He knew it would only be a matter of time before he crumbled, and he wasn't risking her life for his own selfish desires.

He'd made a deal, and he intended to honour it. If that meant leaving Ballyk and his friends, then so be it.

He scoured the crowds for his brother's face, but came up empty. He took a few steps further out into the carpark, until a voice caused him to turn around.

'Peter!' It was Mark, Peter's older brother. Peter smiled when he saw him, and the two hugged. 'Welcome home,' Mark greeted him, his eyes searching Peter's face. He didn't like what he saw. 'What happened, Peter? Why are you back?' he asked, the smile falling from his face. Peter just shook his head.

'Long story, Mark,' he sighed, looking at his feet, then back up at Mark. Mark knew when to drop a subject; he'd just get it out of Peter later. Peter would need to talk, and Mark would be there when he did.

'Ok. Car's over here.'

* * *

Her eyes still felt heavy, but she forced herself to open them again. She was warm and comfortable, but she knew something was wrong. She willed her eyes open.

The window she recognised from last time was still there, as were the curtains. The painting definitely told her she wasn't in her bed in her room. She turned her head slightly. There was a chair in the corner, but it was empty. What was going on?

'Peter,' she whispered. She tried to speak louder, but her throat was dry and sore. She swallowed a few times, trying to moisten it. 'Peter,' she tried again. Peter would know what was going on. _Peter…_

Memories came flooding back to her: the river, walking down by the lake…the Chinese Food Fair…the lights, the fuse box…

She tried to wiggle her fingers, but she couldn't. Something was holding them together, and tightly. She tried lifting her hand to examine it, but her body screamed resistance. She couldn't move.

'Peter!' she cried hoarsely, the panic rising through her chest. 'Peter!'

She heard footsteps. _Peter…_

A blonde-haired lady rushed into the room. 'It's ok, it's ok,' she said soothingly, rushing to Assumpta's bed. 'You're ok.'

Assumpta stared at her, her eyes wild. 'What…' she stumbled out, her mouth refusing to work as she commanded it.

The nurse smiled gently. 'You've had an accident,' she said calmly. 'You're lucky to be alive.' This information did nothing to quell the panic that had risen to Assumpta's throat. She felt her stomach revolt, the muscles in her stomach and chest doing sommersaults.

'Peter,' she moaned, before she started dry-reaching. The nurse put her hand on her arm, patting it carefully as Assumpta convulsed.

'Mrs McGarvey, Mrs McGarvey, please relax. You're ok, everything's ok,' she said, hitting the button for help.

_Mrs McGarvey?_

_Leo…_

Assumpta felt wild, the panic threatening to overwhelm her. The nurse continued to talk, but Assumpta didn't hear a thing.

_Mrs McGarvey…_

She let the panic overtake her, the darkness enveloping her.

* * *

Leo paced at the foot of Assumpta's bed. _I should have been here. I should never have left._

He'd taken the nurses' advice and gone home to shower and get some sleep. She'd be ok, they'd told him. If she woke, they'd tell her he'd be back soon, but they didn't think she'd wake again today.

Clearly, they had been wrong. A full-blown panic attack, they had said. Half an hour later, when the doctor was satisfied there'd been no permanent damage to her heart, he'd left with strict instructions to keep her lightly sedated for the next few hours. She needed to rest.

Leo continued to pace. He'd grilled the nurse for every piece of information he could before she'd escaped into a back room. She was reluctant to tell him what she'd said, and he knew why.

_Peter._

Leo sat on the chair, his head in his hands. He needed time to think. Rest. He needed to plan this, and plan it carefully. He was determined he wasn't going to lose the woman he loved again, but he felt strangely like it was a fight he'd already lost.

* * *

Peter pulled at his black jacket, straightening it as he stood in front of the door to the old building. Its once familiar shape now felt alien. It was like it knew he didn't want to wear it; he had betrayed it, and all it stood for. It knew that just days ago, he was ready to discard it forever.

_I want to do this_, he told himself. _I made a deal_.

He took a deep breath and walked through the Bishop's door into a small office where a receptionist sat. Bishop O'Connell was a good Bishop, he knew; he cared about his flock, and looked after the priests under him. Peter knew why he was here; Father Mac had obviously felt it necessary to alert the Bishop to Peter's recent…behaviour. Peter knew what lay ahead, and had mentally prepared the necessary words.

_I am committed to the Church, Bishop O'Connell. I apologise for my recent behaviour, Bishop O'Connell. Three bags full, Bishop O'Connell._ He mentally berated himself for the last one. The Bishop was no Father Mac, but he still needed to convince the Bishop that he was ready to be a priest again. That he'd decided to return to Manchester to get away from…temptation. That he was ready to recommit his life.

Who was he kidding? He'd run away from the only woman he'd truly loved - and a town he had grown to call home - because he'd made a deal with the Creator for her life.

Yes, that would go down like a lead balloon. Peter knew he could never say that to the Bishop, to anyone.

The receptionist interrupted his thoughts. 'You can go in now,' she said with a smile. He smiled back and headed towards the door. He pushed it open to reveal a large office, not unlike Father Mac's. The large, ornate wooden desk sat in one corner, several seats congregated around a small table in another. The walls were covered with pictures of saints.

'Ah, Father Clifford. It's nice to see you again,' the Bishop said, warmly shaking Peter's hand. The Bishop was older, in his seventies, but his eyes were bright, and his smile genuine. Peter smiled shallowly, all the mental preparation he had gone through flowing out of him like the river in Ballyk.

_Ballyk._

He shook the thought from his head and followed the Bishop to the seats. 'Tea?' the Bishop asked, smiling at Peter. Peter nodded.

'Yes, thank you, your Grace,' he replied, and the Bishop picked up the phone. 'Two teas, thank you, Margaret. Thank you,' he said into the receiver. Peter looked over at the chest against the wall nearest him. There were photo frames, but he couldn't make out the pictures. Some were colour – taken recently, obviously – and some were black and white.

'My family,' the Bishop explained, noting Peter's observation. Peter smiled and nodded. 'My brother and his wife with their children, my sister with her family,' he said, waving at the photos. He smiled at Peter. 'They remind me why I'm here,' he said, his eyes keen. Peter shifted uncomfortably; he felt as if the Bishop's keen eyesight could pierce his very soul. A benefit, he supposed, when dealing with unruly subordinates - like himself.

'Father, I'm sure you're at a loss as to why I've called you in to see me today,' the Bishop began, sitting down. Peter put on a smile.

'I assume, your Grace, that Father MacAnally has spoken to you in regards to my departure from Ballykissangel,' he said, watching the Bishop's reaction. He merely nodded.

'Yes, that is true.' The Bishop remained silent. Peter took the opportunity to begin his platitudes.

'I can assure you, Father, that I am wholly committed to my vocation. I did have a rough patch, but I think it's only strengthened my resolve to be the best priest I can be,' he started, when he noted the Bishop's amused expression. Peter stopped, taken aback.

'You are not the first priest, Father, who has felt the call of love,' he said, his eyes piercing Peter's soul, yet again.

'Yes, your Grace.'

'Father, I haven't called you here to scold you,' the Bishop said gently. Peter looked up at him. 'You're not a school boy, you're a grown man. I completely understand your problem. Even the strongest of us have our moments,' he admitted. Peter just stared at the Bishop, the walls around his heart in danger of crumbling. Peter took a deep breath and steeled himself, a motion which did not go unnoticed.

'I want to be a priest, your Grace,' he said quietly. 'No matter what anyone has told you,' he added, his voice steely. He dragged his eyes up to the Bishop's. 'I have made my decision.'

The Bishop merely looked at him, meeting Peter's gaze.

'You don't necessarily need the church to devote your life to God, Father.'

Peter felt like a speeding train had just crashed into his chest. He stared at the man in front of him. He knew. Somehow, he knew. He knew about the deal he'd made with God. He felt his eyes begin to burn, and he looked away, trying to compose himself. There was a knock at the door, and the receptionist appeared with the tea. Peter used the few seconds she needed to pour the tea to compose himself. When she'd gone, he looked back over at the Bishop.

'Yes, your Grace,' he replied, his face a mask. The Bishop frowned slightly.

'Hmm. Well, I'm more than happy to have you back. Things have been rather hectic since you left. It's been three years, yes?' he asked.

'Almost two years,' Peter replied. _One year, ten months and fourteen days_.

The Bishop nodded. 'I believe you get on rather well with teenagers, Father.'

* * *

_Chapter Three coming soon. Any feedback greatly appreciated._


	3. Chapter 3

'Brendan, can I speak to you?' Niamh indicated to the other end of the bar. Brendan looked puzzled, then worried, but followed her anyway.

'Is Assumpta ok?' he asked, the concern evident in his voice.

Niamh took a deep breath. 'That was Leo. He's asked me to go down and see her.' Brendan's eyes widened slightly. He wasn't sure Leo had forgiven them for failing to ring him; the local Gard had broken the news. Brendan understood, and felt a sense of shame for not suggesting it. He, like the others, hadn't even considered Leo until he'd shown up the next evening in Fitzgerald's. He knew Niamh had copped the brunt of Leo's hurt and anger; after all, she was the closest to Leo of the lot of them, and Assumpta's closest friend.

_Well, that's debatable. …Was debatable,_ he corrected. Brendan put that thought out of his head, and focused on the conflicted woman in front of him.

Niamh hadn't even visited Assumpta yet, a fact Brendan knew ate at her every minute. He'd told her to go several times, but she'd brushed him off and changed the subject. He knew she didn't want to get in the way, and with Assumpta still out, there wasn't much point anyway. He suspected she was hiding from Leo a little as well; he doubted she'd forgiven herself for letting the Gards be the ones to inform the next of kin.

'Would you mind watching the bar for a few hours?' Niamh asked. Brendan nodded quickly.

'Of course, of course. Whatever you need.' He noticed that she hadn't told him why Leo had asked Niamh to visit, but he didn't press the issue.

Niamh nodded gratefully. 'Thanks.' She slipped past Brendan and to the door.

'Say hi for us, yeah?' Brendan asked. Niamh nodded as she slipped out the door.

* * *

Peter sat on his bed, staring at the phone in his hands. _I just need to know how she's doing._

He'd avoided any contact with anyone from Ballykissangel since Brendan had caught him leaving the next morning. Brendan had understood in part he knew, but it had still hurt that the priest had forsaken his friends and the tiny town, apparently without reason.

_Maybe I could call the hospital_, he thought.

_No._

_Leo will be there._

He'd deliberately left the hospital that night – and Ballyk the next morning - before Leo could get there. The last thing he needed was a bitter and rage-fuelled confrontation with Assumpta's estranged husband.

He'd spent the night outside the room while they'd worked on her, filling her with all kinds of fluids, cleaning and bandaging her burnt hand and foot. He watched as they'd put the tube down her throat, connecting wires here and there. She was pale, but still beautiful. His heart had ached as he'd watched her lying there, unconscious, but alive.

The doctor had come out of the theatre and just stared at him in wonder. Peter knew what he wanted, but he had simply shaken his head.

_God works in mysterious ways, Doctor, _was all he'd said before turning on his heel and heading out the door. The last time he would ever see Assumpta Fitzgerald.

He put the phone back on the table. He needed to keep it that way.

* * *

Niamh walked quickly into the hospital and headed straight upstairs, following Leo's directions. _Up the elevator to the third floor. She's still in the ICU. Room 8B._ She turned the corner, following the numberstill she got to Assumpta's room.

She took a deep breath in, preparing herself, willing herself not to cry as soon as she saw her friend. She knew there wasn't much hope, but she tried anyway. Taking a deep breath, she rounded the corner into the room.

Assumpta's room was stark white, with several windows looking out over Cildargan. Niamh was grateful they'd let her stay in Cildargan; Ambrose had told her they'd wanted to move her to Dublin for tests, but had decided against moving her at the last minute.

Her eyes fell on the man standing in front of the chair in the corner. 'Hi Niamh,' he said quietly. Niamh couldn't help herself; the tears fell freely.

'Oh, Leo,' she sobbed as she hugged him tightly for a few moments. When she eventually released him, she studied his face. 'You look like you haven't slept for days,' she said severely. 'When was the last time you went home?' she asked, trying to cover her mothering-voice, but not succeeding. Leo rubbed his eyes.

'Not for a few days,' he admitted. 'The last time I left…' he trailed off. She nodded, understanding.

'How's she doing?' she asked quietly, turning to look at the unconscious form of her friend. Leo sighed.

'She's sedated. The doctors say she needs more time to recover.' He rubbed his hand over his face, covering a yawn. Niamh raised an eyebrow, and patted his arm.

'I'm here now. I'll stay,' she started, talking over him when he began to protest. 'I don't have to be back for a few hours; Brendan's minding the bar, and Ambrose has Kieran,' she explained. 'She won't be alone,' she added softly. Leo finally nodded.

'Ok,' he conceded. 'I'll be back in a couple of hours. God knows I could use some sleep.'

'And a shower,' Niamh added wryly, and Leo feigned offence. 'Off with you now,' she said pushing him towards the door.

He stopped and walked around the bed, carefully placing a kiss on Assumpta's pale forehead. Niamh watched the scene, her heart breaking. She knew things had changed for Assumpta; she didn't know much, but she knew Leo wasn't the one who held her heart. The one who did had abandoned them all, including Assumpta. _He left without even saying goodbye_, Niamh thought bitterly. The wound still smarted. She'd thought he was ok – he'd seemed tired when he returned, but ok - but hindsight told her how wrong she'd been. She'd liked Peter; he hadn't been like the others. He genuinely cared about them all. At least, she thought he had. He hadn't even waited to baptise Kieran; Father Mac had done it, much to Niamh's disgust. She sighed. Peter's sudden departure had sent another shockwave through the small village, and she wasn't sure how much more the little town could take.

* * *

Peter walked up the driveway of the Community Centre. When the Bishop had told him what he wanted him to do, Peter was initially surprised. A recently wayward priest in charge of a large number of impressionable teenage boys? He thought the Bishop was mad, but he hadn't questioned him. He was grateful that the Bishop was even allowing him to remain in the church, and that he wasn't going on another retreat. The last thing he needed was a large amount of free, quiet, unplanned time on which to ponder his faith, and his past. He'd done enough of that already. He needed to do something. Anything. Anything to keep his mind off her.

He approached the office door and knocked. He'd been told to look for Father Johns, the priest in charge of the area. An older man opened the door, a grin on his face. He was maybe 60, or 65, with grey hair and green eyes. Peter couldn't help but smile back.

'Can I help you?' the man asked.

'I'm Father Clifford,' Peter offered. The man grinned again.

'Father! I've been expecting you! And I can see the Bishop listened to me this time,' he said, surveying Peter. Peter looked concerned, but before he could say anything, the man stuck out his hand. 'Father Johns,' he said, the smile not leaving his face. Peter shook his hand.

'Pleased to meet you, Father.'

'Ah, call me Sam,' he said, turning and walking through the door. Peter raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He followed Father Johns into the office, shutting the door behind him. 'Now, Father…Clifford…what's your first name?'

'Peter.'

'Peter! How much do you know about Basketball?'

* * *

_I'm not quite sure how long this is going to be. I suspect I'm trying to write a novel..._

_As usual, any and all feedback appreciated._


	4. Chapter 4

Niamh sat back down in the chair for what felt like the fiftieth time that afternoon. It'd only been an hour, and she was already restless.

_Calm yourself, woman_, she told herself. _You're not helping_.

She watched Assumpta's chest rise and fall with each breath; the breath the patrons of Fitzgerald's on that horrifying night had thought had been snuffed out for good. That was, until Niamh had received a frantic phone call from a hysterical Ambrose screaming down the phone that she was alive. Niamh lost it at that point. She fell to the floor of Fitzgerald's, sobbing, barely aware that someone had taken the phone from her hand. She vaguely recalled Brendan screaming out across the bar that Assumpta was alive. He'd run out of the bar like a crazed man, shouting down the street that she was alive, waking half the town. Siobhan had sat on the floor next to her, cradling her head while she cried tears of joy and relief. Assumpta wasn't dead. Her friend was alive. Brian had eventually picked her up and taken her home, putting her to bed with two large aspirin, but she awoke when Ambrose came home. He was shaken by everything; the doctor had pronounced her dead, the ambulance had taken her away only a few minutes later, and yet…

Of course, the questions came thick and fast the next day; the bar was full of discussion around Assumpta and the apparent miracle. Niamh recalled the conversation in the bar the next afternoon, when Dr Ryan had come in for coffee, looking a little worse for wear, having spent most of the night and that morning at the hospital.

'What happened, Michael?' Brendan had asked, his tone serious. Michael had shaken his head, his face blank.

'I don't know, Brendan. She was dead in that basement,' he said, his voice heavy.

'I know. I was the one giving her mouth to mouth,' Brendan had replied.

'We all saw the medic arrive and pronounce her dead,' Siobhan had added, matter-of-factly.

'What happened, Michael? What happened in the back of that ambulance?' Brian had asked quietly. The whole bar sat in silence. Michael shook his head, his voice serious.

'A miracle, Brian. A miracle. And I think the only person who can answer that better than I can isn't interested in discussing it.'

* * *

Niamh sighed, the beeping of the monitors dragging her back into the present. She was grateful, so grateful, her friend was alive. She silently gave thanks for the thousandth time that day. God knew she was thankful. She sat back against the chair, watching the heart rate monitor go up and down with Assumpta's heartbeat.

She was lost in thought when a sudden movement jolted her back to reality. She leapt forward in her chair; Assumpta's eyelids had flickered.

Assumpta was vaguely aware of the same irritating beeping noise as she slowly floated back to consciousness. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking several times, still feeling groggy. She needed to get that beeping seen to, whatever it was. _Peter will sort it_, she thought.

'Peter?' she asked, still blinking slowly.

She turned and lifted her head slightly to see Niamh's concerned and somewhat surprised face hovering over the bed. Assumpta blinked several times, willing her mind out of the fog it was happily swimming through.

'Niamh?'

Niamh shook her head quickly and smiled. 'Oh, you're awake,' she replied quietly. Assumpta didn't understand.

'Niamh, what's going on?' she asked, noticing her voice still sounded like she was wading through treacle. Niamh's smile faded a little.

'You had an accident, Assumpta,' she offered, eyeing her friend carefully for any sign of panic. Assumpta just blinked at her.

'Accident?' Niamh nodded.

'The pub is being rewired as we speak,' she said carefully. Assumpta let her head fall back on the pillow. _The pub…the fuse-box…_she remembered.

_Mrs McGarvey…_

'Leo!' she said suddenly, giving Niamh a fright. Niamh made soothing noises, rubbing her shoulder.

'He's gone home to get changed, Assumpta. He'll be back soon, I promise.' Assumpta just stared at her, trying to make sense of it all.

'Why?'

Niamh frowned. 'Assumpta, he's still your husband,' she replied. Assumpta blinked a few times, the memories slowly working their way back into place - the river…the lake…Niamh's kitchen…Peter's face when she'd returned, married…

'Yeah,' she said, looking up at the ceiling. She needed time. Time to think. But she was so tired…

_Where was Peter?_

'You've burnt your hand, and your foot,' Niamh offered, trying to change the subject. 'But they're healing nicely, the doctors say.' Assumpta looked back at her.

'What else?' she asked groggily. Niamh frowned, unwilling to speak. 'Niamh, please…'

'Your heart took quite a beating, Assumpta. You're going to need some time off,' she said carefully. Assumpta groaned. 'You need to take it easy, Assumpta. You have to rest. You've already…' Niamh paused. 'You're on a lot of medication.' Niamh said gingerly. Assumpta looked back up at the ceiling.

'How long…?' she asked.

'Ten days,' Niamh replied quietly. Assumpta's eyes widened.

'Ten days?' she said, trying to raise her head from the pillow.

'Assumpta, everything is fine. I'm running the bar, and Brendan is helping out on the weekends. It's fine, Assumpta. Lie back down before I call the nurse,' she threatened, when Assumpta continued to try to move. Assumpta gave up, lying back down on the pillow. 'Assumpta, please just rest.'

Assumpta closed her eyes again, willing the darkness to swallow her, and the confused chaos she was in. It did, willingly.

* * *

Niamh sat back against the chair, twirling the straw in her fingers.

Assumpta had called Peter's name in her sleep. Again. She knew she'd done it before; the nurse had told her as much when she'd come in to check her vitals. Niamh couldn't imagine what that had done to Leo. Niamh knew they had separated, but Assumpta hadn't confided in her much more than that. Not that that was new; Assumpta had always played her cards close to her chest, and particularly when it came Leo.

And Peter.

Niamh wasn't stupid, and nor was she blind. She knew Assumpta's relationship with Peter had changed; the final confirmation had been in the basement that night. It didn't take a genius to realise that the relationship between the Priest and the Publican was not the conventional one.

She wondered how much Leo knew, or had guessed. She suspected he'd figured out more than enough; more than he'd wanted to know. And she suspected he'd known for a while.

But Peter was gone now, and had not indicated an intention to return.

Niamh wondered if anyone's heart would be left unscathed by the time this was over.

* * *

_A slightly shorter one this time. This is going to be quite a story, in case you hadn't already picked that up... If there are any glaring plot errors, please feel free to let me know and I'll do my best to correct them._

_As always, any and all feedback is much appreciated._


	5. Chapter 5

Peter looked around the large hall of the Community Centre. 'Run down' wasn't the phrase he would use use…'dilapidated' didn't do it justice either.

'Are you sure this place is safe, Father-Sam?' Peter asked sceptically, correcting himself at the last minute.

Sam grinned, and nodded. 'Yup, Health and Safety check it regularly.' Peter raised his eyebrows. 'Did I mention that Health and Safety has tea with the Bishop once a fortnight?'

'Ah.' Peter nodded. 'Ok. Where's the equipment kept?' Sam indicated to a door on the far side of the room.

Peter started towards the door, but stopped when he got close. 'What on earth…?' The door had four padlocks, two the size of his fist. He turned and looked at Sam, and shook his head.

'I take it things aren't improving around here,' he said wistfully. Sam frowned and shook his head.

'Not really. But there are still some good kids,' Sam commented, as he turned and headed back to the entry.

'So, how many teams are there?' Peter asked. Sam nodded.

'See, that's where I was hoping you'd come in,' Sam said, grimacing and turning to face Peter. Peter raised his eyebrows. 'The last man here…well...let's just say teenagers weren't his thing,' he stated diplomatically.

'Oh? So…there are no teams?'

'Uh…no.' Sam grimaced, and Peter sensed there was more yet to come. 'The kids don't come here much anymore. The previous man imposed some…regulations…that the kids didn't like, and so they stopped coming.' Peter looked at Sam incredulously.

'What kind of regulations, Sam?'

'Oh, you'll see.' Peter shook his head, disbelieving. It just kept getting better and better. But he had to be optimistic;_ things are going to be good_, he told himself.

'So when do we start?' Sam raised an eyebrow at him, amused.

'We?' Peter looked at him, taken aback.

'Aren't you in charge?' he asked, confused.

'Oh, I'm not in charge here, Peter. You are.'

* * *

Peter sat on the front steps of the Community Centre. The Bishop had neglected to pass on that vital piece of information. _In charge of a Community Centre? Me?_

He was still supposed to take Mass on a Sunday at least once a month, but Sam had told him not to worry about the first month while he settled in. Peter rubbed his face with his hands.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

_What have YOU gotten me into? How am I supposed to do this? I know nothing about teenagers, despite being one once. How am I going to get the kids back in the door, let alone anything else? _

_Oh well,_ he thought, resigned. _It'll keep me busy enough._ Enough to keep his mind from wandering to unwanted places.

Suddenly, a thought popped into his head. _Football._

Peter grinned; football he could do. _Perfect._

The unlikely sound of a Mercedes-Benz engine dragged Peter out of his reverie. He watched as the brand new black Mercedes raced down the street towards the community centre. It looked so out of place in the street full of community housing and derelict shopfronts. The sound of a group of boys arguing on the path across the narrow street distracted him from the approaching car; two of them had raised their voices. One pushed the other, and the other retaliated. Peter stood up slowly, the scene playing out in his head in slow motion. He yelled out to the boys to get back, but they didn't hear him. Peter watched as the pushing became more violent, and the inevitable happened – one of the boys punched the other in the mouth.

The boy stumbled back onto the road. The sound of the screeching tyres and screaming brakes pierced the air. Peter ran for his life - a few quick steps and a lunge - he had the boy around the waist, dragging him off the road, as the tyres of the car screeched over the bitumen where his feet had just been. Peter fell to the ground, the boy falling on top of him, his head hitting the concrete of the path. The Mercedes came to a stop just past them. There was a stunned silence as the group processed what had happened.

And then the boys ran.

Peter turned his head, watching them run down the street. 'Hey!' he yelled, but they didn't stop. Suddenly a man in a crisp grey suit was grabbing at the boy who was still lying half on top of Peter. Peter looked from the man's panicked face to the boy's – he was out cold. Peter scrambled out from under the boy as the man cradled his head.

'Oi! Oi! Can you hear me?' he tapped the boy's cheek, but there was no response. The panic rose up in Peter's chest as he stared at the pale face of the boy lying on the ground. His ears began to ring; his eyes blurred.

_Basement, darkness, Assumpta's pale face, terror, despair… _

'… hospital,' Peter heard the man say, talking as if through a fog. Peter forced himself back to the present, shaking his head to clear it as the man put his hand on his shoulder. 'Are you ok? Father?' Peter looked at the face of the man sitting next to him. He was maybe 50, his dark hair matching his dark eyes. Peter nodded.

'Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. He's not though,' he said. He looked over at the Mercedes. 'Can we use your car?'

The man's eyes widened slightly as he looked from the car to the boy's bloodied head. 'Uh…' He paused, and then shook his head. 'Ah, sure. It's the least I can do, I suppose!' Peter didn't have time to raise his eyebrows; he carried the boy and placed him on the back seat of the car, his head resting on Peter's lap.

The man jumped into the front seat and put it into gear. Peter held the boy's head still as much as he could through the bumpy streets of the city.

'William Jones.' Peter looked up at the man driving the car. 'That's me. I'm William Jones. I'd shake, but I don't think I should take my hand off the wheel just now.'

'Ah, Peter. Peter Clifford. I work at the Community Centre,' he explained.

'Ah, the new priest.' Peter got the impression from William's tone of voice that he was not unfamiliar with the Community Centre, but William didn't elaborate any further. 'Nice to meet you, Father.'

* * *

Niamh watched as Assumpta stirred again. Leo had been gone for nearly five hours, and Niamh had read every magazine the hospital had to offer. She was going crazy, but not as crazy as she imagined Leo would be when he found out his wife had woken up twice whilst he was absent. Niamh wondered when the poor man would catch a break.

Assumpta turned her head and looked over at Niamh. Niamh could see she was still groggy, and struggling to put the pieces together. It was like it was all too much for her to process at once, which wasn't like Assumpta at all. Assumpta had always known what she wanted, and had almost always got it.

_Until now._

Niamh wasn't excited at the prospect of telling her friend that Peter had gone. That he had left without a word. And that she had no idea how to contact him.

Niamh put that out of her mind – it wasn't today's problem - and smiled at Assumpta. 'Hiya again,' she said wryly. Assumpta managed a small smile. 'You're beginning to make this a habit.'

'What, interrupting your boredom?' Niamh feigned shock. 'Ah, Niamh, it must be boring as hell watching me sleep.'

'Not for me,' a voice said from the door. Niamh looked up, surprised, and then quickly glanced down to gauge Assumpta's reaction. Her head had flicked over to face the door, her face full of shock. Leo didn't miss a beat, his face the blank canvas it usually was. 'Surprise,' he said humourlessly.

When Assumpta didn't respond, Niamh stood up. 'I'd best be going, Assumpta. Poor Ambrose has been stuck at home all afternoon with Kieran, and I left Brendan and him running the bar. Not that it's a problem, but you know what those two can be like,' she added quickly at the end. Assumpta turned back to Niamh and nodded gingerly.

'Thanks, Niamh,' she said. Niamh just nodded and smiled sympathetically, for more reasons than one.

'Just get better now.' Assumpta smiled, and Niamh headed out the door, giving Leo a quick hug on the way out.

* * *

_We are going somewhere with this, I promise. _

_As always, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated._


	6. Chapter 6

'Leo, what are you doing here?' Assumpta asked, fighting the grogginess.

'My wife almost dies, and she wonders why I'm here,' he mused, not looking at her. Assumpta sighed.

'That's not what I meant, Leo.'

'I know.'

Assumpta looked up at the ceiling, fighting the drowsiness that threatened to overtake her. She couldn't deal with this now; it was too much. She felt lost, out of control. Tired. Heavy. Her chest hurt. All she wanted to do was sleep, but she needed some answers. She didn't know what was going on, and no one seemed forthcoming. She certainly didn't want to ask Leo, and Niamh had danced around the subject. And where was Peter?

She looked over at him. He was still watching her, like he always had.

'I'm tired, Leo.' He looked down at the linoleum floor. The pattern had become so familiar in the last few days.

'I know.'

* * *

'Been here long, Father?' William asked, as they sat in the hospital waiting room.

'About a week,' he replied. 'But I grew up around here. Manchester, I mean, not this particular area,' he added. William looked at him in surprise.

'Ah, then, welcome home,' he said, spreading his hands out. Peter gave a humourless smile.

_Home?_

'I'm going to get some coffee. Want some?' William offered, as he stood. Peter nodded.

'Yeah, thanks.'

William gone, Peter sat in the waiting room, the scene far too familiar. The memories threatened to overwhelm him. Her pale face, the tube sticking out of her throat, the mechanical noise of the various machines that told him she was alive. Alive.

_Why? Why am I back here? What are you trying to teach me?_

Hearing no answer, Peter got up and started pacing around the waiting room. He didn't expect an answer; this was something he was going to have to figure out on his own.

He felt a hand clap him on the back, and turned to see Sam.

'First day on the job and already saving lives, eh, Peter?' he said, a smile on his face. Peter smiled tiredly back.

'Something like that.' Sam sat down, and Peter sat down next to him. They sat in silence for a while, but Peter couldn't sit still, wringing his hands and bouncing on the balls of his feet. Sam watched in quiet amusement.

'Everything ok?' he asked quietly. Peter looked around in surprise. 'You look like you'd rather be going ten rounds with Mohammed Ali,' he commented, his keen eyes observing Peter's somewhat erratic behaviour. Peter sighed. It was one of his least favourite character traits: wearing his heart on his sleeve.

'Ah, just don't like hospitals,' he lied, but one look at Sam's face told him he hadn't bought it. Peter looked back down at his clasped hands. 'I have spent too much time in emergency rooms lately,' he offered, his tone making it clear he was unwilling to talk more.

Sam frowned in understanding. 'Not nice places,' he stated mater-of-factly. Peter shook his head.

'No. Not at all.'

'Especially when it's someone you care about.' Peter flicked his head around so fast he heard it crack, but Sam was already looking beyond him. 'Ah, Father, I see you've met Mr Jones,' Sam half-laughed, and stood to greet him.

'Father,' William replied, handing Peter his coffee. 'Sorry about the coffee.' Sam waved him away.

'And how are you involved, William?' Sam asked.

'Oh, didn't Father Clifford tell you? He saved the boy's life on the road today – I nearly ran him over!'

'I didn't save anyone. I just managed to pull the boy out of the way in time. Anyone would have done it,' Peter claimed, trying to deflect the praise.

'Nonsense. You didn't see anyone else – any of his friends – risking their necks, did you?' William continued. Peter thrust his hands into his pockets uncomfortably. He hated this.

Sam clapped him on the back. 'I hadn't heard it quite like that, no. Well done, Peter.' Peter just stood there awkwardly.

'It was nothing. William is going to have to fork out a lot of money to have his car cleaned,' Peter said, trying to redirect the conversation.

'Well, yes, he did bleed everywhere,' he conceded. 'I suppose it was the least I could do for the boy.'

'Father Clifford?' a voice called out from the Nurses' desk. Peter turned and headed over to the desk.

'Yes, I'm Father Clifford,' he said.

'You'll be pleased to know that the young man you brought in is going to be fine. He has a mild concussion, but he's awake. We've rung his mother, and she's on her way,' she said. Peter sighed in relief.

'That's great news.' The nurse smiled at him, one eyebrow raised.

'I hear it's all your fault,' she said. Peter looked at her quizzically. 'Jumping in front of moving vehicles, Father? You'll get a reputation,' she said sarcastically. Peter grimaced.

'I don't plan on making a habit of it, believe me,' he assured her. She smiled.

'Well, one young man is happy you did. You can see him if you like,' she said. Peter went to shake his head, but quickly changed his mind and nodded. It couldn't hurt to have at least one of the local boys on his side.

'Yeah, that'd be nice. I'd like to at least know his name,' Peter replied.

Peter indicated to Sam and William on his way through the doors and around the corner to where a boy in a tracksuit sat on a bed. His head sported a large white bandage, with a gauze patch over the wound. Peter smiled and stuck out his hand.

'Hi. I'm Peter,' he offered. The boy looked at his hand, and then back at his face. He eventually shook Peter's hand, albeit somewhat warily.

'You gonna tell on me?' he said, his voice edgy. Peter frowned.

'For what?'

'For fighting.' Peter grinned and shook his head.

'Everyone runs into a little trouble every now and then,' he said, shrugging. The boy relaxed a little. _Win number one,_ Peter thought.

'So, can I ask your name?' The boy looked at Peter, clearly judging whether or not it was safe to offer up such precious information.

'Jack.' Peter nodded.

'Hi, Jack. Do you live around here?' Peter asked. Jack eyed him again.

'Why do you want to know?'

'Because I run the community centre, and I think you'd be great on my futsal team,' Peter stated. Jack shook his head gingerly but quickly.

'I don't go there,' he declared. Peter frowned.

'Why not?'

'Cause if I go there, then I have to go to church, and I ain't going to church,' he declared, his face defiant. Peter stared at the boy, horrified.

'Who told you that you had to go to church if you went to the community centre?'

'The other priest. The one who left,' Jack replied. Peter frowned, remembering Sam's comment about the previous priest and the 'regulations' he'd imposed.

'Well, Jack, I run the centre now, and I make the rules. You can come any time you like, and you don't have to go to church if you don't want to,' Peter pronounced. Jack eyed him again.

'Really?'

'Really. Promise.' Jack seemed satisfied with this for now. 'So, when you're better, do you think you could visit?' Jack was silent for a few moments.

'I suppose.'

_Win number two._

* * *

Niamh walked through the hospital foyer for the second time in two days.

She bit her lip, wondering how she'd avoid the subject of Peter. She wasn't sure Assumpta was ready to hear. She knew she couldn't put it off for long, but it was a conversation she was very much dreading. Assumpta had had enough heartbreak in her life; she didn't need any more, and especially not now.

Maybe if Peter was gone, she'd make a go of it with Leo. Maybe.

Niamh rounded the corner to Assumpta's room and smiled at Leo who was sitting on the chair in the corner. He looked exhausted.

'Didn't you go home last night?' she asked, surprised and somewhat concerned. Leo just shook his head. Niamh gave him her best unimpressed-mother frown, and opened up the bag she'd brought. 'I brought you lunch. Homemade beef stew.' She pulled the container out of the bag with a spoon and handed it to Leo, who took it gratefully. 'It's still a bit warm,' she said. He just stared at her. 'Well, go on then,' she chided, motioning at the dish. Leo obediently took the lid off the container and took a mouthful.

'This is great, Niamh. Thanks.' Niamh smiled.

'Well, we can't have you starving, now. And everyone knows hospital food is terrible,' she reasoned. She looked over at the sleeping Assumpta. 'How's she?'

Leo shook his head. 'She hasn't woken since last night,' he said, the disappointment evident in his voice. Niamh frowned, concerned. 'It's only 11 o'clock, and she's pretty doped up, Niamh,' he added. Niamh nodded.

'Yeah. She has a little more colour in her cheeks,' she added, trying to brighten the mood. Leo nodded.

'The doctor said she should start waking up a little more frequently and for longer soon,' he explained.

In between mouthfuls, Leo asked about Kieran and Ambrose and the rest of the town, and Niamh was happy to talk. Anything to fill the silence, which seemed loaded with tension and guilt. Niamh's guilt.

She needed to tell Leo about Peter, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Leo didn't ask, either, himself not wanting to know, preferring the reality he was living now, no matter how short it might last. She reasoned that she really didn't know anything of substance anyway; there was only what she'd seen between them, what she'd noticed in their faces when they looked at each other. Peter's hysteria and utter despair that night. And whatever had happened in the ambulance ride…

Leo stood up and handed Niamh the dish. 'Thanks for lunch. I really appreciate it, Niamh. You're the only one…' he stopped. 'Well, Cildargan is a long drive,' he reasoned. Niamh realised what he meant, and rushed to explain.

'Oh, no, Leo. They're just busy; Brendan and Padraig are helping me run the pub, Siobhan's pregnant…' she trailed off, realising how hollow her excuses sounded. 'They didn't want to crowd her…and they weren't sure they were welcome,' she admitted. 'They don't know you so well, Leo.' Leo nodded, understanding.

'Tell them they're welcome to visit, but only for a short time. I don't want Assumpta tired out if she's awake. She's got enough to deal with,' Leo stated.

_If only you knew_, Niamh thought to herself. Instead, she nodded, smiling. 'I'll tell them. I'm sure they'll come.'

* * *

Niamh sat in the chair again, re-enacting the previous night. She'd sent Leo home, fussing around him so much that he was almost glad to leave. She told him not to return until he'd had some sleep. She'd come prepared this time, with books. She had only read a few pages when she noticed Assumpta's head move.

'Peter?' she moaned quietly, before her head came to rest facing Niamh. Niamh studied her still pale face, her heart breaking for her friend. The news was going to hurt, and hurt a lot.

Suddenly Assumpta's eyes fluttered open, and she saw Niamh across the room. 'Niamh?' she asked, the worry unmistakable in her voice, despite her grogginess.

Niamh realised she was crying, and quickly wiped away a tear. 'Hiya,' she said, forcing a smile, but Assumpta wasn't fooled.

'What's wrong?' Niamh shook her head.

'Nothing, really. I'm just tired. Kieran's not been sleeping well, and things are a little hectic at home,' she explained, but it sounded hollow even to her ears. 'How are you feeling?' she asked, trying to change the subject.

Assumpta half-snorted and rolled her eyes. 'Like I've been run over by a train,' she groaned. 'What have they got me on?' she asked, and Niamh smiled.

'Leo said you're pretty doped up,' she offered. 'I don't know exactly what you're taking, but the doctor said something about keeping your heartbeat steady and slow, so I guess that's why you feel so tired,' Niamh rambled. Assumpta just stared at her.

'Niamh,' she pleaded. 'I need to know what happened. Tell me.'

Niamh looked at the floor. She kicked herself for being so transparent. She really didn't want to have this conversation tonight. On the other hand, she reasoned, Leo wasn't here, and she didn't know when she'd get another opportunity like this. She took a deep breath and exhaled shakily.

'Assumpta, you should be dead,' she whispered, the tears falling freely now. Assumpta just stared at her, her eyes wide. 'You were electrocuted. That stupid fuse-box… The electrician wouldn't believe me I told him you had survived. It took Brian and Siobhan two hours to convince him you hadn't been killed. He said the voltage that went through you would have killed a horse and then some,' she whispered, her voice shaky from crying.

Assumpta's eyes felt hot; she fought the tears, but they came anyway. 'What happened, Niamh?'

Niamh took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. 'The lights went out, again. You went downstairs to fix them, but then there was a loud bang and everything went out. Peter figured it out first and raced down there with Michael and Brendan, but it was too late. Your heart had stopped. They tried, Assumpta, they really did…' she trailed off, the tears overtaking her. 'And then Ambrose rings me from the hospital, frantic, shouting that you were alive, and Peter…' She looked over at Assumpta, gathering herself together.

'You're alive,' she said, with finality, wiping at her tears. 'And that's all that matters.'

Assumpta felt the tears roll down her cheeks and on to the pillows. She was struggling to take it all in – she remembered talking with Peter – that stupid grin he'd been wearing all afternoon, since he'd decided – then her annoyance at the lights going out, and thinking that she was going to have to eventually fork out for new wiring…but the rest was blank. Now she knew why. But Peter…

'Niamh, where is Peter?' Niamh couldn't look Assumpta in the face. She couldn't tell her that Peter had gone. She didn't know how. How to communicate something so painful…honesty, she decided.

'I don't know, Assumpta. I don't know.'

* * *

'_I don't know…I don't know.'_

The words rung in Assumpta's ears. Peter was gone. Peter had left her. He'd left her here, nearly dead, in a hospital bed. He'd let her wake to Leo's face, not his.

The tears flowed hot and fast; she could feel the pain rising through her chest, but she didn't care.

Peter was gone. Again. He'd run away, just like he'd pleaded with her not to. No explanation. Just gone.

The pain rose up through Assumpta's chest, choking her. Her ears started ringing, and her vision blurring. She could hear Niamh's voice in the background, as if she were far away, getting higher and higher in pitch until she was screaming, but it didn't matter.

The pain was so intense she gasped for breath, but none came. The hot tears stung her eyes.

Peter had left her for dead.

There was a flurry of white in front of her eyes, and then nothing.

* * *

_Yes, Peter is going to pay for his decision; although, possibly not in the way you're all imagining...we'll see!_

_It's a bit longer this time because I'm not sure I can keep this pace up. I will finish the story - I promise, cause that's just cruel - but I can't promise a new chapter every night in future. Life, pffft._

_As always, any and all feedback appreciated. Errors, encouragement - anything._


	7. Chapter 7

Ambrose raced through the doors of the hospital and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. As he rounded the corner he saw Niamh; she was standing against the wall, her arms folded. As he pelted down the corridor, she looked up and gave a cry. She rushed to him, his arms open, and he enveloped her in a hug. She sobbed into his shoulder while he patted her hair.

'Shhh, it's ok. It's ok. It'll be ok,' he whispered soothingly. When she'd calmed down a bit, he pulled back to look at her red, tear-stained face. 'What happened?' he asked gently. She shook her head, trying to speak, but nothing came out. She buried her face in Ambrose's shoulder again.

Ambrose saw the doctor come out of Assumpta's room, and called out to him.

'Doctor! What happened, Doctor?' The doctor shook his head.

'I'm not sure,' he started. Niamh gave a small cry. 'We're running some tests. At best, she simply had a large panic attack. We've sedated her for now, and I'd like to keep her that way for a few days. Do you know where Mr McGarvey is?'

'He went home to get some sleep. I was sitting with her, and she woke up, and we were talking…' Niamh started on a fresh round of tears.

'What were you talking about?' the doctor asked. Niamh looked up at Ambrose.

'I tried to avoid it for as long as possible…I knew she'd be upset…' Ambrose realised what she was talking about. 'I couldn't lie, Ambrose, I couldn't,' she cried, and Ambrose pulled her in tight.

'It's ok. She'll be fine. It's ok.'

The doctor turned to Niamh, putting a hand on her shoulder. 'Whatever it was, it was a shock. Her heart isn't strong – it's still recovering. She can't take any more surprises, or bad news, in the next few weeks. She needs to remain calm for a while.' Niamh nodded, and to doctor smiled.

'She's a fighter, your friend. Don't give up hope.'

* * *

Peter arrived early at the Community Centre the next morning, his eyes sore and his head pounding. He'd had a rough night; nightmares had plagued his sleep, again. He hadn't had a good nights' sleep in…well, since long before he left Ballyk. Now her face haunted his dreams. Her pale, sleeping figure, lying dead on the basement floor, her red lips standing out in her pale face. In his dreams she doesn't wake up; she doesn't survive. He screams, begging people to listen. He shakes her body, but her eyes don't open. He eventually wakes, screaming her name. More than once Mark had crashed through his door just as Peter had woken, drenched in sweat.

He hadn't confided in anyone about her – about what had happened that night – but he knew Mark was going to ask soon enough. Peter sighed to himself. Father Mac had suggested counselling before Peter had left, but he hadn't been in a frame of mind to listen to anything Father Mac had had to say that morning. Maybe it would be good to talk to Mark about him. Mark knew his brother, and well, and he could be trusted to keep a secret.

Peter just wasn't sure he could trust himself.

Peter walked up the stairs to the door. He thought he'd make some notes about the place, maybe get the Bishop to fork out for some paint, at least. As he approached the door, his heart sank.

The door was already open, the lock on the ground. Peter closed his eyes for a second. _Just what I need._

He slowly walked up the stairs, listening for any noise from within the centre, but it sounded fairly empty. He slowly poked his head in the door, pushing it open gingerly. 'Hello?' he called out.

A crashing sound caused him to turn his head towards the storage room. Sure enough, the bolts lay in pieces on the floor. He quietly walked over to the door, and listened. He could hear the urgent whispers of young boys terrified of being caught. Peter knew he couldn't handle more than one, maybe two of them. He looked at the door; the handle was still intact.

Peter had an idea.

* * *

Sam roared with laughter as he looked at the storage room door. 'Brilliant, Peter. Brilliant.'

A loud banging interrupted Sam's praise. 'Oi! Let us out!' a muted voice cried.

'Not until the Police get here!' Peter yelled back. He turned as he heard voices from over near the door; the Police had arrived. Peter headed over to the entrance to greet them.

'Peter Clifford,' he said, as he shook the two officers' hands.

'Father,' they both replied. 'Can you show me where you've got them?'

'Sure can,' Peter replied, 'although you can probably hear them.' Peter led them across the hall to the storage room door, where the boys were still pounding on the door, but Peter's leather belt was holding nicely. The officers took one look at the belt and smiled wryly, shaking their heads.

'I see you're no stranger to Manchester, Father.'

* * *

'How's the Community Centre going, Father?' the Bishop asked as he sipped his tea. Peter smiled.

'It's going well, actually. It's been…an interesting few days,' he said, a wry smile on his face. The Bishop chuckled.

'Yes, I've heard. You're a local hero, Father.' Peter shook his head.

'I doubt that.'

'Well, it sounds like you're off to a good start at least,' the Bishop replied. 'What can I do for you, Father?'

Peter took a deep breath in. 'Have you been to the centre lately, your Grace?' he asked. The Bishop shook his head.

'I have to admit I haven't. But it passes all the Health and Safety regulations, you know,' the Bishop said with a knowing look. Peter nodded.

'Yes, I've heard.' He stopped. 'It's just so…run down, your Grace. It's not a place kids would want to actually spend time, and isn't that the purpose of the centre?' he reasoned. The Bishop nodded; he could see where Peter was headed.

'Funds are low, Father,' he replied, 'but I'm sure I could find some money for some paint or something,' he added before Peter could interrupt. Peter smiled satisfactorily.

'Thank you, your Grace.'

'What are you going to do about the young men who broke into the Community Centre?' the Bishop asked. Peter shook his head.

'The Police want to know if I want to press charges, but I don't really want to take it that far. On the other hand, I don't want them to think they can get away with stealing,' Peter said. 'What do you think?' The Bishop frowned.

'I think the world would benefit from a little more grace.' Peter nodded.

'I agree.'

The Bishop sighed. 'I should tell you now, I suppose,' he started, changing the topic. 'I'm retiring in a couple of months,' he told Peter. Peter was surprised and a little disappointed, and it was evident on his face.

'Your Grace?' The Bishop shook his head.

'I'm old, Father. And I think it's time I hung up my boots, so to speak,' he said thoughtfully. Peter frowned; he didn't know Bishop O'Connell very well, but he got the sense that he was a good Bishop. The Catholic Church needed more like him.

'You will be missed, your Grace,' Peter said, a little forlorn. The Bishop smiled.

'I like to think I've made an impact,' he said meditatively. He turned his keen eyes on Peter. 'I suspect you would like to think the same thing about yourself.'

Peter frowned, a little taken aback. 'I think every priest would like to think they made an impact, your Grace,' he said, not quite sure where the Bishop was heading.

'I don't think it's only priests who think that, Father.'

Peter realised what he'd said. 'Of course, I only meant…' he trailed off. The Bishop smiled.

'Of course, Father. Just make sure you remember that.'

* * *

Peter walked down the road towards the Centre, deep in thought, when a car pulled up beside him.

'Want a lift, Father?' a voice yelled out the window. Peter turned to see William Jones. 'I'm heading that way,' he said.

'Uh, sure, thanks,' Peter got in the car; probably the most expensive car he'd ridden in, he thought.

'How are you, Father?'

'Good, thanks. Yourself?'

'Oh, I'm fine. Heard anything about the boy?' Peter shook his head.

'Not recently, no. I haven't seen him since the hospital released him that night.'

'Ah.' The car pulled up outside the centre. Both men got out and headed up the stairs.

'Is there something I can do for you, Mr Jones?' Peter asked, confused as to why William Jones would be hanging around in this neighbourhood.

'Call me William,' he replied. He looked around the hall contemplatively. 'I don't think this place has had a lick of paint since I was boy.' Peter stared at him.

'You spent time here?' Peter was incredulous.

'Yep.' William looked over at Peter. 'Didn't grow up here, no. Ran away from home once, stayed with some friends around here for a while.' William fingered the dirty wall. 'Spent many an afternoon in here, playing football, mostly.'

Peter watched as he ran his hand along the wall, and turned to face him.

'Father, I've got a proposition for you,' he said. Peter eyed him carefully.

'Ok.'

'I'll have this place done up for you, for free.' Peter raised an eyebrow. He'd heard those kinds of statements before.

'What's the catch?' he asked carefully.

'What? No, no catch. I'd just like to put up some advertising. You know, for business,' William said, shaking his head dismissively. Peter nodded; that was the catch.

'That's a very generous offer, Mr Jones – William – but I'll have to get permission,' Peter replied noncommittally. 'You know, from the Bishop,' he added. William looked unperturbed.

'Ah, the Bishop won't mind. But I understand, get it in writing,' he said, waving his hand, and heading for the door just as Sam walked through it.

'Father,' he said, passing Sam out the door. 'Think about it, Father Clifford,' he yelled back as he walked down the stairs. Peter grinned wryly, shaking his head. Sam looked at where William was, and back to Peter.

'What's up?' he asked, curious.

'Oh, nothing much. Mr Jones just reminds me of…someone I used to know,' he added at the end, the grin fading from his face. He sighed.

'Peter?' Sam asked. 'Everything ok?'

Peter shook his head and plastered on a smile. 'Sure, fine.' Sam didn't buy it. His new charge was like a bird with a broken wing. He wondered what had broken it, but he knew now was not the time to ask. Peter looked increasingly exhausted by the day; it was clear to Sam he wasn't sleeping well. He wondered what could have happened to the young curate to cause him so much anxiety and pain. He needed help, for sure, but he sensed today was not the day.

'I came to see how your meeting went,' he said instead.

'Oh, thanks. Really well. I will have paint,' Peter replied. Sam nodded.

'Good, good.' He looked around the hall. 'Are you going to paint this place all by yourself?' he asked. 'Because I can help, but I won't be able to do much.'

Peter frowned, until suddenly a thought popped into his head. He smiled.

'No, Father, I think I will have some help.'

* * *

_And another one down._

_Again, feedback - positive and negative - is always appreciated._


	8. Chapter 8

Leo sat quietly in the chair, typing away on his laptop. He'd missed so many stories while he'd been stuck in the hospital; he felt out of the loop. His editor was sympathetic – surprised, at first, really - but it had been more three weeks now. They'd even moved her out of ICU and into a ward, and his editor was starting to push. Leo sighed and looked over at his sleeping wife.

_Wife._

Leo snorted. She was his wife on paper, and that was about all.

She hadn't woken in a few days, but the doctors had said that was for the best. Her heart had been badly damaged, but would recover considerably in time. The doctors seemed quite optimistic – as long as the panic attacks stopped.

Leo's mind drifted back to his last few days in Ballykissangel. He'd thought he was safe. Peter had avoided the bar like the plague initially, and then just avoided him and Assumpta where possible. But as much as she didn't like to think so, Assumpta wore her heart on her sleeve when it came to the priest. Peter was clearly fighting with himself; Leo knew too well the look of a man who wanted what he couldn't have.

Leo had known fairly early on things weren't going well, but he'd made a commitment. She'd made a commitment. She'd chosen Leo.

It wasn't long before he had begun to wonder why. It also hadn't taken him long to figure out.

Even with the priest out of the picture, Leo still wondered.

* * *

Peter hit the bell that was sitting on the reception desk at the police station. 'Father Clifford, here to see Senior Constable Miller,' he said to the receptionist, who picked up the phone.

He didn't wait long before the Senior Constable appeared from behind a door.

'Father,' he said, holding out his hand. They walked through the door and down a hallway. 'Are you sure about this?' the Senior Constable asked, a bit dubious. Peter sighed.

'Nope, not really. But I have to get the kids back in the door somehow,' he replied. The officer nodded.

'Yeah, last guy really didn't do you any favours.' Peter shook his head. At least the community was united over one thing.

They came to a door, and the officer stopped. 'I haven't called the parents yet,' he explained. 'I've told the lads that you'll decide by today whether or not to press charges. They think they're here cause you're going to.' Peter nodded, understanding.

'Thanks.'

The officer glanced at him one more time before shaking his head slightly. 'I hope you know what you're doing,' he commented before opening the door.

_Me too_, thought Peter, putting on his most serious face.

The four boys were sitting around a table, their faces sullen. The officer excused the constable who had been watching them.

'Right, lads. Father Clifford has decided you need to be taught a lesson,' the Senior Constable said. Peter noticed the boys' faces drop slightly, but nothing else betrayed their emotions. 'That's why he's going to give you a choice.' All four eyes hit Peter. Peter maintained his serious no-nonsense face, trying to catch each boy's eye, but none of them would meet his gaze.

'You can either do the time, or you can work with Father Clifford at the community centre.' The boys' eyes narrowed as they glanced at each other.

'What kinda work?' the oldest boy asked, clearly suspicious.

'The Centre is a little run-down,' Peter stated. 'You can help me paint it.' The boys looked around at each other again, their faces softening.

'How long for?'

'However long it takes to strip it back and paint two coats,' Peter replied. The oldest boy frowned, clearly considering his options, and those of the group. He looked over at the other boys, who gave away nothing. He looked at the officer, and then back to Peter.

'Do we have to go to Church?' he asked, finally. Peter raised an eyebrow.

'No. New priest, new rules,' he said, folding his arms across his chest. 'Well, what is it?' he asked, pretending to be impatient. The boy raised his chin defiantly.

'We'll work at the centre,' he declared. Peter watched as the other boys literally deflated with relief.

'Good,' Peter replied. 'You'll start tomorrow. It's Saturday, so you can start at 9am.' The boys looked mutinous, but Peter shook his head. 'Early start, early finish. If you put in the effort.' The boys eyed Peter, but said nothing.

'Right then. Now, lads, this isn't an easy way out. You cause any more trouble, or don't turn up once, then it's straight to the lockup, understand?' The boys all gave a nod. The Senior Constable motioned for Peter to follow him outside.

Once outside, Peter grinned. 'Well done, Father,' the officer said, shaking Peter's hand. He eyed him suspicious. 'You've done this before, haven't you?' the officer said, amused. Peter shook his head noncommittally.

'Nope,' he replied, smiling awkwardly at the officer. The officer cocked his head slightly, confused, but then smiled.

'Ahh. I suppose I won't find your name in here officially, then, will I?' Peter grinned.

'Nope.'

* * *

Sam was impressed. 'Well done, Peter. And to think I was worried about a young curate coming from a small town in Ireland,' he commented as they walked down the aisle of the church, watching Peter's face carefully. The bags under his eyes weren't getting any better; if anything, they were getting bigger. His cheeks had a gaunt look about them. Sam was sure he'd lost weight in the few short weeks he'd been there. Something was desperately wrong.

Peter raised his eyebrows and smiled humourlessly. Sam stopped walking.

'Peter, I hope you know you can trust me,' he said, looking intently at the young curate. Peter looked up at the older man, his face surprise. Sam clapped him on the back and kept walking. 'You've heard about O'Connell?' he asked, changing the subject. Peter nodded.

'Yeah. Disappointed.' Sam nodded.

'Yes. He was one of a kind.'

'Do you know who'll be replacing him?' Sam nodded, his face solemn.

'Oh.'

'Bishop Morris is cut from a different cloth than you and I,' Sam said diplomatically. 'Hopefully he won't take a lot of notice of us.' Peter's face was grim. _Just what I need - another Father Mac_, he thought.

_Well, that had worked out well in the end… _

Peter shook his head. He was his own worst enemy, but old habits die hard.

Sam continued to watch Peter carefully. Maybe a project was what Peter needed for now; time to work hard and clear his mind. Sam knew whatever it was that was troubling his new young curate was not going away easily or soon…if at all. There was nothing he could do, he reasoned, until Peter decided to confide in him. If he ever decided to. Sam didn't like the ifs in those thoughts, but he knew God, and he knew God only worked in the ifs.

'When do the boys start?'

'Tomorrow, 9am.'

'Saturday morning. You'll be popular,' Sam said, amused. 'I suppose they preferred it to the alternative.' Peter nodded, smiling. 'Have you met the parents?' Peter shook his head.

'No, they weren't there when I was.'

'Ahh, ok. I imagine it'll go well, but you never know with some of these families. Not a lot of trust around here.' Peter nodded, understanding. For some families, the church was just as bad as the alternative. Peter knew he had his work cut out for him

'Where are you staying now?' Sam asked Peter, changing the subject.

'With my brother and his wife still,' he responded.

'Is that a good arrangement?' he asked. Peter nodded.

'It's good for now,' he replied. 'I haven't spent much time with Mark since my mother passed away, so it's nice to catch up.' Sam nodded.

'Family are important. Gives us someone to talk to,' Sam mused. 'And we all need someone to talk to, don't we?' Sam asked, his eyes piercing.

'Yes, Father, we do.'

* * *

Assumpta smiled as Brendan and Siobhan rounded the corner to her room.

'Ah, you look fine,' Brendan said, studying her. 'So tell me why I'm killing myself in your pub at nights?' he asked, jokingly. Siobhan smiled at Assumpta, leaning down to give her a kiss on the cheek.

'Ignore him. He loves it, secretly,' she whispered, and Assumpta laughed.

'I hope I still have a pub to go back to,' she said. Brendan raised his hands in mock objection.

'And that's all the thanks I get, is it?' he said, and Assumpta smirked at him.

'So, how you be?' Siobhan asked. Assumpta frowned.

'I'm fine,' Assumpta responded. 'Apart from these,' she said, raising her heavily bandaged hand and foot slowly. 'They tell me I'm lucky; they're only second-degree burns,' she said warily. 'They sure hurt enough when they change the bandages.' Siobhan nodded.

'The doctors are right,' Siobhan said, her eyebrows raised. 'A thousand volts go through your body and you escape with burns and a bruised heart.'

Assumpta smiled at the irony. Her heart was more than bruised, and in more ways than one.

'Where's Leo?' Brendan asked.

Assumpta shook her head, frowning. 'I think he said he had to go to work; I was half-asleep when he left.' She sighed. 'It's all I seem to do at the moment.'

'Enjoy it. You'll never get this much sleep again,' Brendan proclaimed.

Siobhan turned to stare at him. 'Ah, and who's the one having the baby?'

Brendan backpedalled. 'Well, I'll be around a bit,' he stated, warily. Siobhan snorted and turned her attention back to Assumpta. 'How's the food?' she asked. Assumpta groaned.

'Free, I guess,' she commented, and Siobhan smiled.

'Good, cause Niamh hijacked us on the way and sent these,' Siobhan whispered conspiratorially. She grabbed the basket Brendan had been carrying, opening the lid for Assumpta to peer in at the contents.

'Oh, yeah! Great, thanks!' Assumpta whispered. The basket was filled with cakes and biscuits, and a container of home-made stew.

'Knew you'd like it,' Siobhan said, satisfied.

Assumpta picked up one of the biscuits and started nibbling. 'How's things?' she asked.

Siobhan frowned, thinking. 'Much the same. Nothing much has changed,' she said. She exchanged a glance with Brendan, who looked down at the floor.

'The new priest arrived yesterday,' Brendan said quietly. Assumpta stared at him. Of course. They would have to replace him, she thought. Assumpta nodded, staring at the blankets. 'He seems nice enough,' Brendan continued. 'Clueless, but that's not new.' Assumpta nodded, searching for something to say to break the awkward silence. Siobhan rescued her.

'We haven't really told him much,' she explained. 'He not a stupid one, though.'

'Sadly,' Assumpta joked, trying desperately to plaster a smile on her face. Siobhan prattled on with some more small talk, and Assumpta nodded and made noises at the right moments, but her mind was elsewhere.

A new priest.

It was like someone had finally shut the door, a big heavy door of finality. It was over. He wasn't coming back. She felt a heavy weight sit on her heart. She hadn't really thought too much about going home, and certainly not about a new priest. Well, to be fair, someone new was coming anyway…she admonished herself for the thought. Peter Clifford was gone, and gone for good.

_Father Mac must be thrilled_, she thought drily.

Siobhan and Brendan both noticed Assumpta's preoccupation, and made motions to leave. Siobhan gave Assumpta a hug. 'We'll come visit again soon,' she promised, as she stood up. Brendan nodded.

Siobhan walked out of the room, but Brendan hung back, seemingly wanting to say something, but not able to find the words. Assumpta watched him, her face impassive.

'I'm sorry, Assumpta,' was all he said, before he walked out the door.

* * *

_I'm sorry it's been so long between chapters. Ah, life..._

_I also want to make sure I get it right. Feedback always appreciated._


	9. Chapter 9

Assumpta flinched and cried out as the nurse removed the bandage from her foot. 'I'm sorry,' the nurse said immediately, grimacing. 'I know it's sore, but I have to change the bandage.'

'I know, I know,' she replied as she laid her head back on the pillow.

'They're healing very well,' the nurse said, trying to offer some consolation. 'They only hurt now because of the new skin. It hasn't toughened up yet. It's a good sign.'

Assumpta nodded. She hadn't realised how serious her burns were at first; she'd been so heavily sedated she couldn't really feel anything.

Except for the pain in her chest, which she'd decided was just physical. Just physical. The doctors had told her there had been damage to her heart. That's why it hurt so much, she reasoned.

Leo sat and watched as she laid there, her face occasionally contorting slightly with pain.

'Well, you really did a good job,' he commented. Assumpta glared at him.

'Of course, I planned it,' she retorted. Leo raised his eyebrows, and she sighed. 'Sorry. It just hurts.'

'I can see that.'

Assumpta sighed. 'How much longer do I have to be in here?' she asked.

'You still can't walk, Assumpta,' Leo said, incredulous. 'Where do you think you're going?' he asked.

'I have a pub to run, Leo, or had you forgotten?'

'Niamh and Brendan are doing a fine job. Niamh's loving it, if you ask me. You might have to fight her for it,' Leo joked. Assumpta rolled her eyes.

It had been five weeks, and Assumpta had had enough. She was awake for most of the day now, although she tired easily when she wasn't alone. Which she preferred; being alone meant thinking, and the last thing Assumpta Fitzgerald wanted to do was think. She couldn't help herself; her thoughts always drifted to him, no matter how hard she tried.

At first she'd been hurt; she'd cried a few times. But now she was angry. Hurt had turned to fury and resentment, and she was lashing out at anyone who came near. Unfortunately for Leo, he copped the brunt of it, but she didn't care. She felt let down. Betrayed. Deceived.

He had told her he loved her, and then disappeared when she needed him most.

She didn't even want to know why anymore.

* * *

Her white face loomed large in the dark basement, her dark hair framing her face. Her red lips were motionless. He screamed, but nothing came out.

He was in the hospital now. She was lying on the bed next to him, the whiteness of the sheets mirroring her face. His desperation grew. He ran out of the room, screaming for people to hear him. Someone. Anyone. He ran and ran, shouting and yelling for someone to come, but he found no one. The hospital was deserted. He fell to his knees, the pain in his chest threatening to overtake him. He tried screaming again, but nothing came out. His chest felt like it was going to explode. He fell backwards on to the floor and-

Peter sat bolt upright in the bed. _Nightmare._

They were getting more and more regular, more and more frequent. He dreaded closing his eyes; her pale, lifeless face swam before his eyes.

Peter threw back the covers and pulled on some trousers. He walked quietly down the stairs, and, grabbing a beer from the fridge, went and sat out the front steps of his brother's house.

He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep this up. He looked terrible, and he knew it. Sam had hinted as much that day. He felt like he was carrying a tonne of bricks around his heart. He missed her so desperately it hurt.

_What am I doing? Is this punishment?_

_I don't know how much longer I can do this. You have to do something. Please._

Peter put his head in his hands, the tears threatening to overwhelm him.

The door opened behind him. Mark emerged from behind the screen, complete with beer in hand. He sat next to Peter on the step, and cracked open the lid.

'Can't sleep?' he asked.

'When can I?' Peter replied.

'Touché,' Mark said, holding his beer up for Peter to knock. They sat there in silence for a while, both drinking their beer.

'What happened, Peter?' Mark finally asked quietly. Peter sighed and shook his head, starting to protest, but Mark cut him off. 'I don't care, Peter. Whatever it is, it's destroying you,' Mark said quietly.

Peter knew he was right. He knew he couldn't keep this up much longer. He knew it was destroying him, slowly and painfully. Maybe he did need to talk.

Peter sighed. 'I don't even know where to begin.'

'The start.'

Peter unloaded the whole story to Mark; how he'd met Assumpta, how he'd slowly fallen in love with her over his time in Ballykissangel. His decision to remain in the priesthood, and how her subsequent marriage to Leo had broken his heart, and confirmed what he already knew deep down: that he would never be able to stop loving her. How things with Leo hadn't worked out, how he'd finally decided what he wanted.

How she'd died, right in front of him.

'The nightmares are her. Always her. She was dead, Mark. Dead.' Mark looked at him, confused.

'What do you mean, 'was'?' Peter smiled humourlessly.

'I made a deal, Mark. I made a deal with God,' he replied quietly. Mark just stared at his brother. His eyes narrowed.

'What do you mean?'

'I said I'd devote my life to Him if he just brought her back. If he didn't take her away.' Peter's voice broke. He hadn't spoken to anyone about that night. He hadn't told a soul what had happened in the short time between him leaving the pub and getting out of the back of the Ambulance to drive it like a mad thing to Cilldargan. 'And He agreed.'

Mark took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. 'Nothing with you is ever simple, is it, Peter?'

Peter snorted. They sat in silence as Mark thought over what Peter had told him.

'Tell me I'm crazy,' Peter said in the darkness. 'I know I am. But I know what happened. I know she was dead in that basement and alive in the back of that ambulance.' He stopped. 'All I know is that I made a deal, and I have to honour it,' he said firmly, his voice betraying the pain he felt.

'You couldn't stay in Ballykissangel while she was there.'

Peter snorted. 'No. We've already established I have no willpower when it comes to Assumpta Fitzgerald,' he spat, suddenly realising how much he loathed himself for his actions. 'If I hadn't loved her – if I hadn't broken my vows – none of this would have happened,' he cried.

'I think you give yourself too much credit, Peter,' Mark replied quietly. 'You don't know that.' Peter just stared at him, but eventually lowered his eyes. He knew.

'I made a commitment.'

'Yes.'

'A commitment that is meant to last a lifetime.'

'Yes.'

'So tell me how this isn't my fault?' Peter spat. Mark nodded, understanding his brother's pain.

'I don't believe that a God who writes 'Song of Songs', a God who sent His only son to die for people he knew would never love him, a God who created love – _is_ love – would ever punish a man like this.'

* * *

Assumpta looked at the nurse hopefully. 'Surely it's healed enough now, yes?' The nurse smiled wryly and looked over at Leo.

'Is she always like this?' she asked, bemused.

'You should see her when she can walk.' The nurse laughed. Assumpta threw her hands up in frustration. The nurse sighed.

'I haven't got a wheelchair for no reason,' she confirmed. Assumpta threw her hands up in the air again.

'Finally!' she cried.

'I'm taking you up to the physio. He's going to start getting your muscles back into shape,' she advised. Assumpta tried to swing her legs around to the edge of the bed, but they didn't make it all the way around. She groaned, frustrated. The doctors had told her to expect this; the electric shock had travelled down the left side of her body, in her left hand and out her left foot, and had left her with muscle degradation down the left side of her body. Add to that five weeks of very little movement at all, and she had lost a considerable amount of muscle control.

'Just hang on,' Leo said, pulling the sheets back. 'Let me do it,' he said, raising his eyebrows at her. She just stared at him.

'Do what?'

'Just lift your arms,' he put his arms under her knees and under her upper back, and lifted her off the bed. Assumpta gasped as he picked her up.

'Leo! You can't, I'm too heavy!' she protested, but he just looked at her.

'You're never too heavy,' he said, staring into her eyes. Assumpta looked back for a few seconds before looking away, his gaze too intense. 'Now, where's that wheelchair?'

* * *

Assumpta stared up at the very familiar white ceiling. Her muscles ached from the physio, but she didn't care. Leo had left for work after seeing her back to her room, promising to return later.

She couldn't do this. She couldn't. It was too much. There was too much going on in her head, and in her heart. She couldn't deal with Leo _and_ Peter.

_Peter…_

_Loved_, she told herself. Past tense. He was gone, and he wasn't coming back. His position had been filled.

She sighed heavily. Who was she fooling? Despite the flashes of fury she felt, she knew still loved Peter. She'd loved him from the start. She had loved him despite everything he stood for, everything he was.

But he had betrayed her. Left her for dead in a cold, white hospital.

She struggled to push the thoughts of him out of her mind. She wished her heart would just do what she told it to, because she didn't know how long she could maintain loving him and hating him at the same time.

* * *

Niamh rounded the corner to Assumpta's room hesitantly. She hadn't been back since the night she'd told Assumpta about Peter. Niamh shivered involuntarily at the thought of that night. It had been horrible; the machines beeping, Assumpta's eyes rolling back into her head, the horrible gasping and choking noises she had made. It had taken all of Niamh's strength, and a little prodding from Siobhan and Brendan, to convince Niamh to return. That, and a little guilt. She was supposed to be her best friend, and she hadn't visited in over two weeks.

She put a hesitant smile on her face and walked in. Assumpta smiled tentatively when she saw her.

'Hiya,' she offered, and Niamh visibly relaxed.

'Hi. How are you feeling?' Niamh asked.

'Good. Much better. Burns are almost healed; the doctor says they won't need bandaging soon,' she offered. Niamh smiled.

'That's great,' she said, relieved. 'How's the physio?'

Assumpta rolled her eyes. 'Everything they say about physios is true,' she moaned.

'So fairly well, then,' Niamh countered. Assumpta shot her a look before answering.

'Apparently, the muscle degradation isn't too bad, and most of my movement should just return in time. I'm not allowed to drive for ages,' she whinged, and Niamh frowned.

'Ah, I'll help with that.' She paused. 'And your heart?' she asked, even more hesitantly than before.

'It's fine. Getting stronger every day,' Assumpta said, putting on a brave face for Niamh. She knew Niamh didn't mean just her physical heart, but Assumpta wasn't really interested in talking. She had been working hard to push everything out of her mind, and with nothing much else to occupy it, that was hard.

'Thanks for the contraband,' she said, and Niamh smiled.

'I thought you'd like it.' Niamh sat awkwardly for a few moments, not sure if she should even try to broach the topic of Peter, given the reaction she had induced last time. Assumpta filled the awkward silence with questions about Kieran and Ambrose. She moaned when she heard that she'd missed the little boy's first attempt at rolling over, and sighed when she realised she'd missed Ambrose's birthday.

'We had a party at the pub,' Niamh explained. 'The new priest was there-' It was out before she could stop herself. She looked up at Assumpta, horrified. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it,' she said, wringing her hands. Assumpta reached over and touched her friend's knee.

'It's ok. I'm fine. Really,' she said, hoping desperately her face didn't betray her. In reality, the mention of the new priest had been like a stab to the heart, but Niamh was already so upset, and Assumpta wasn't about to make things worse for her friend. 'What's he like?' she asked, not really wanting to know, but desperate to make Niamh feel better.

'He's nice. I think he's in his early thirties; he's definitely older than you and I,' she said. 'He's still settling in. The town…well, you know,' she said, looking up at Assumpta's sombre expression. Assumpta nodded, understanding. The people of Ballyk weren't about to allow a new priest into their hearts; not after the sudden and unexplained departure of the last one who had worked so hard to gain their trust. Assumpta felt a pang of guilt; she realised how selfish she'd been. She wasn't the only one hurting over Peter. She wasn't the only one feeling betrayed. Maybe not to the same extent, she reasoned, but still. Many more people than her felt let down.

'Niamh, what happened?' she asked. Niamh looked up at Assumpta.

'What do you mean?' she replied quietly.

'You know what I mean, Niamh,' Assumpta said, her voice firm. 'You're the only one who can tell me,' she almost begged. Niamh sighed.

'I don't know, Assumpta. He came back, and he seemed fine for a day or two, and then…' She stopped, and looked up at Assumpta, the pain evident in her eyes. 'He never even said goodbye.'

Assumpta nodded dumbly, shocked. _He never even said goodbye._

'Assumpta,' Niamh asked tentatively. 'What's going on?' Assumpta looked over at her, her face a mask. She replied honestly.

'Nothing, Niamh. Nothing at all.'

* * *

_I'm sorry this is the first new chapter in a long time. I'm writing, but not getting much time to edit. Hopefully that'll change in the next couple of weeks._

_Note: I was rewatching a bit and realised I've been spelling Cilldargan wrong. I apologise!_

_As usual, any and all feedback greatly appreciated._


	10. Chapter 10

Peter stood at the door of the Community Centre and glanced at his watch. It was 8:55am. The boys would arrive at any minute. Peter planned to strip back the walls first; he'd been down to the local hardware store and picked up everything they needed for the first few days. He fingered the walls; thirty years of dirt and grime and innumerable layers of paint were not going to give up easily. The boys would have their work cut out for them. Peter didn't mind; it would be good for them, and maybe they'd take more of an interest in the place if they invested some of themselves in it.

Well, he hoped they would. The centre was so...quiet. It left Peter with too much time to think; something he didn't enjoy. Thinking was the last thing Peter Clifford needed to do at the moment.

His thoughts were disrupted by the sounds of scuffing shoes. He took a few steps down the stairs, where the boys met him.

'Father,' the chorused, and Peter smiled.

'Good to see you, lads.' He motioned towards the door. 'Let's get started.'

The boys traipsed inside, clearly less than enthusiastic. 'Thought you said we were painting,' the older boy said when he saw the tins of paint stripper.

'In order to paint, one must first strip the walls,' Peter explained. The older boy narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Peter held out his hand.

'Peter,' he said. The boy looked at his hand for a few tense moments – Peter practically held his breath – and then shook it.

'Michael,' he replied.

'Nice to meet you officially, Michael,' Peter said. He reached out his hand to each of the other boys, who each shook his hand, offering their names: James, Liam, and Jonno.

'Well, this isn't going to be easy,' Peter admitted. 'But if we work hard, we'll get it done quickly.' He gave each of the boys a paintbrush, a paint removing tool, and a can of paint stripper, before showing them how to use it. They got to work fairly quickly, the boys plainly resigned to their fate, and by midday they had almost finished stripping back the bottom of one wall. Peter was impressed, and brought out some juice for them all.

He'd been watching Michael. He was obviously the leader of the group, and the other boys clearly deferred to his judgement. Peter knew if he was going to crack anyone, it would have to be Michael first. Well, he'd at least start with Michael. If he proved to be too much of a tough nut, he'd move on to the other boys and work from the bottom of the pecking order.

Michael had wandered over to the storage room and grabbed a football. As Peter watched, he started kicking it up on one foot, losing control only after a minute of solid ball-work.

Peter smiled and wandered nonchalantly over to the storage room. Michael was still kicking the ball around, ignoring Peter, when he missed slightly and it went sideways. Peter reacted instantly, kicking it straight back up at Michael, who caught it with the top of his foot, and looked over at Peter. Peter motioned at him to pass the ball, which Michael did.

If Peter hadn't been sweating from the hard work they'd been doing that morning, he would have started then. He knew he needed to make this good; his reputation was at stake. He kicked it up several times, bouncing it off both feet, silently praying he wouldn't make a stupid mistake and completely ruin the opportunity before him. He continued kicking the ball until he kicked it above his head and gently headed it back to Michael. Michael caught it again, and stopped, looking at Peter.

'You play, Father?'

'Peter, and I used to, yeah,' Peter replied, trying to maintain his uninterested look. 'You're pretty good,' he said. 'Do you play for a local team?'

Michael shook his head. 'Nah.' Peter raised an eyebrow. Michael shook his head. 'Got kicked off. For fighting,' he admitted, starting to play with the ball again.

'Ah.' Peter saw his opportunity. 'Do your mates play?' He motioned over at the three boys, who were standing around talking.

'Yeah, we all used to,' he said. 'Fighting,' he said in answer to Peter's unspoken question, rolling his eyes.

'How'd you like to play futsal?' he asked. Michael looked up at him.

'Futsal?'

'Yeah. I want to start up a team. We'll train here a couple of times a week. There's a local tournament that runs most of the year we can enter,' Peter said, trying subtly to gauge Michael's reaction, and failing. Michael had perfected the art of teenage impassivity.

'Maybe,' he replied, kicking the ball around again. Peter shrugged.

'I'm hoping to start training next week. I'll let you know,' he replied. Michael nodded.

_I can't do more than that. It's up to you now._

* * *

Peter let the boys go an hour later; they had worked hard, and they were tired. He sat on the steps of the community centre, his spirits buoyed by the morning's events. A futsal team would definitely get people back in the door, and the local boys were definitely football fans – he'd seen them in the varying colours of the Manchester United and Manchester City teams. Not his team, but he'd take anything at the moment.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes. His talk with Mark last night had been good, but sleep had still evaded him. He had mused over what his older brother had said. _I don't believe_ _a God of love would ever punish a man like that_. Peter shook his head. If this wasn't punishment, then what was? Peter's heart ached constantly; her face filled his mind at least a million times a day. Her face filled his dreams, and his nightmares. He longed for the beautiful rolling hills of Ireland; for the quiet, winding roads; for the quiet community; for his friends…

He realised it was more than Assumpta he missed; it was everything, and everyone. Brendan's keen eyes and quiet voice; Siobhan's passion for animals; Padraig's stupid jokes. Niamh's kind words and honesty. Ambrose's passion for the law. The refuge of Fitzgerald's. Her…

He shook his head, willing the tears to stop. He punched the wall beside him with his hand. The tears flowed freely these days, and it drove Peter mad. He could barely contain his emotions. He felt himself get instantly and irrationally angry at nothing; he'd struggle to contain himself when he thought of her. He put his head in his hands.

He was losing his mind.

A set of feet appeared in front of him, and he looked up to see the concerned face of Sam.

'Let's talk.'

* * *

Peter sat on the grass under a tree in a local park Sam had taken him to, only a few minutes from the church. The ground was cool but dry; Peter watched as the leaves on the old, weathered trees twirled in the wind. He had reluctantly followed the priest, and only because he didn't really have much of a choice. He wasn't interested in talking to anyone else. He'd felt better after talking to Mark, but he knew he needed to push her out of his head. He needed to work on forgetting her.

'Peter, I haven't known you for very long,' Sam started. 'But even I can see when a man is not who he used to be.' Peter sighed to himself; damn that heart on his sleeve. Sam turned his head and looked at the young curate. 'I don't want to pull rank on you, but as your Priest, I think you need to talk.'

Peter looked down at the piece of grass he was twirling in his fingers, saying nothing.

'I've spoken to several people who used to know you. They described a keen young man, a passionate young priest. Someone who loved life and loved people. I don't see that in your eyes, Peter.'

He stopped, debating whether or not to play his trump card; he wasn't sure he wanted Peter to know. Another look at Peter's face told him he was going to have to. 'I've also spoken to your brother.' Peter turned to look at the older priest, who met his gaze. He felt a flash of anger, but it subsided almost straight away. He realised he wasn't really that surprised. He had a feeling that under the warm exterior, Sam was a man who got what he wanted.

'Then I guess you know what's wrong,' he said, a touch of bitterness in his voice. Sam sighed.

'Why don't you explain it to me?'

Peter sighed. 'What is there to explain? I loved her. I love her,' he corrected. 'I can't stop thinking about her. I don't even know how she is. She was alive when I left the hospital…' Peter trailed off, willing his voice to hold. 'I thought leaving would help…' he said, his voice strained. Sam put his hand on his shoulder.

'Why don't you call her?' he suggested quietly. Peter's head whipped around.

'Why?'

'Maybe it would put your mind at ease,' Sam said. Peter shook his head.

'No. I can't.'

'Ok. Is there someone else you can ring? Someone you trust, who can at least tell you how she is?' he asked.

_Brendan._

Brendan had been the last person he'd spoken to when he'd left. Not on purpose; Brendan had clearly suspected something and headed him off at the road. He remembered the conversation clearly; about the only thing he remembered from those emotion-filled days. Brendan had asked him what he should tell the others. Peter had offered a trite reply: 'A man's gotta do?' He'd told Brendan where he was going; he still wasn't sure why. Maybe, subconsciously, he'd wanted to keep a link to the town. But Brendan, as far as he knew, hadn't made any effort to track him down. He had assumed that meant everything was ok; he was sure Brendan would contact him if anything had happened. At least, he thought he would…

'I could call one person, yes,' Peter said hesitantly. Sam smiled at him.

'Piece of mind,' he said reassuringly.

Peter wasn't so sure.

* * *

_Another short chapter. Hope you like it. I think we're more than a third of the way through now...but we'll see. _

_As always, any and all feedback greatly appreciated. Your feedback really does help!_


	11. Chapter 11

Assumpta lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was becoming a familiar position.

The doctors had told her she could go home in the next week; her heart was steadily improving, and they'd taken her off most of the medication. Her feet were almost healed; she could walk on them –with a little help and for short periods - fairly well now. She was still tired and a little sluggish, but they'd refused to lower her dose of beta-blockers; especially not after the stories they'd heard from Leo. She would have to put up with a slow, steady heartbeat - and the associated tiredness - for a while yet.

_Home._

She wasn't sure she was ready to face home yet, and everything that came with it. The memories would be the worst, she knew, followed closely by the coddling she knew she'd receive, at least for the first few weeks. She didn't really mind that much – she knew they'd do it because they cared – but she dreaded the looks. The unspoken and unanswered questions that would follow her around. The people of Ballykissangel weren't stupid, she knew. She was kidding herself if she thought no one had known, or at least strongly suspected.

She felt blank now; numb. She was no longer angry, or hurt. She felt nothing. Years of being alone had taught her to bury her feelings. Feelings weren't going to bring him back. Feelings weren't going to run the pub.

She'd learnt her lesson. Again.

She turned her head as a familiar set of footsteps entered the room.

'Hey,' Leo said as he tossed his coat down on the chair.

'Hi.'

'How are you?'

'Fine.' Leo sighed. 'What do you want, Leo?' Assumpta asked, irritated.

'You.' Assumpta flipped her head over to face him. He just stared at her, his face blank. 'I know things didn't end well,' he started, but stopped. His face grew more serious. 'When the Garda called, I couldn't believe it. I wondered why they were ringing me, at first, until I realised why. But then I came, and there was no one else here. You were lying in that bed, tubes sticking out of you everywhere, half-dead, and alone. Alone, Assumpta.'

She turned her head away, her face blank. She knew where he was heading, and she wasn't going with him.

'Why?' he asked, his voice full of emotion.

'Because that's what I am, Leo. Alone.'

* * *

Peter cradled the phone in his hand, again. He'd tried dialling Brendan's number twice already, chickening out at the last minute. He'd played the same game for four days now; telling himself he would ring that night, and backing down when the time came. He knew Sam was right; he needed to know how she was. He needed to know she was ok. That she was moving on with her life.

That she didn't hate him.

He knew the last thought was unlikely. He knew Assumpta Fitzgerald; her temper was legendary around the parish. He knew she'd be furious. And hurt. A hurt he'd caused.

He pushed the thought out of his mind; he couldn't go there. He couldn't. He couldn't bear to think about the pain he'd caused her…the pain he felt…the pain he had no choice over.

He dialled Brendan's number. The phone rang once, twice, three times, until-

'Hello?' Peter's breath caught in his throat. 'Hello?' Brendan asked again.

'Brendan.'

He heard the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone. 'Peter!'

'Yeah.'

'How are you? Where are you?'

'I'm in Manchester, Brendan. I'm fine.' There was silence as Brendan processed this latest development. Peter took his opportunity. 'Brendan…' he trailed off, his voice failing him.

'She's fine, Peter.' Brendan said quietly. 'She's still in hospital, but they're talking about her coming home next week.'

Peter exhaled the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. His eyes welled up with tears. _She was alright._

'Peter, are you ok?'

'Yep,' Peter replied, getting his voice under control.

'We've been worried.'

'I know, I'm sorry.' Peter swallowed. 'I…I really am sorry, Brendan.'

'_I_ know that,' Brendan replied, his emphasis clear. Peter sighed.

'I didn't have a choice, Brendan.'

'We all make choices, Peter.' Peter sighed.

'Yeah.' _If only you knew… _'No one is irreplaceable, Brendan.'

'I seem to remember saying that once.' Peter sighed. 'Listen, I've got to go, but keep in touch, yeah?' Brendan said urgently.

'Yeah.'

'Peter...'

'I'll call again soon. I promise.'

'Ok.'

Peter put down the phone, sighing deeply. He rubbed his face with his hands. _She was ok. She was alive._

The pain in his chest only grew.

* * *

Brendan put the phone back in its cradle. He had been fairly sure he'd receive a phone call at some point; he had betted that Peter would rather ring him than risk ringing the hospital and Assumpta finding out. Or Leo.

Brendan realised he hadn't told Peter about Leo, but he suspected he already knew. Peter Clifford was very well aware he wasn't the only one who loved Assumpta Fitzgerald.

* * *

Niamh smiled at her friend as she sat up in the bed.

'So, this week, eh?' she said, eagerly. Assumpta couldn't help but grin.

'Yup.' Niamh grinned back, and then sighed happily.

'It'll be so great to have you back,' she said. Assumpta smiled.

'It'll be nice to sleep in my own bed again,' she offered, hiding her apprehension. Niamh just shook her head, still smiling. She sat down on the chair next to the bed.

'She won't be working full-time quiet yet,' Leo piped up, and Assumpta frowned. Niamh noticed the look on Assumpta's face and rushed to speak before Assumpta could.

'No-one's expecting her to,' she said, and Assumpta opened her mouth to protest. 'You'll take it easy, or you'll be back here,' Niamh said. Assumpta looked from Niamh to Leo, frowning.

'Well, it's good to know I have two mothers,' she said sarcastically. Leo raised an eyebrow.

'I'm not your mother,' he replied. 'My hair's too curly.' Assumpta made a face at him. Niamh looked over a Leo, and made a motion with her head for him to leave. She needed to talk to her friend alone. Leo got the hint.

'I'm going to get coffee. Niamh?' Niamh shook her head.

'No, thanks.' Leo planted a kiss on Assumpta's cheek.

'I'll be back soon to mother you some more.' She made another face at him, which he returned, before he walked out the door.

Niamh frowned at her friend. 'He's been here every day, you know,' she said, and Assumpta shook her head.

'I know.'

'And why do you think that is?' Assumpta shot a warning glance at Niamh.

'Don't start, Niamh.'

'I'm just saying.'

'I know what you're saying, and you can stop it,' Assumpta chided her friend. 'I don't want to talk about it,' she said, more quietly. Niamh frowned again.

'Assumpta…'

'Niamh,' Assumpta said, finality in her voice.

'He loves you.'

'I know.' Assumpta said quietly.

'So?' Assumpta looked up sharply.

'Drop it, Niamh.'

* * *

Peter sat on the front step, cradling the beer he'd pulled from the fridge. This was becoming a habit, he thought. Not a good one, but he didn't care. He didn't care about much, particularly not when it came to himself.

_She was ok._

He had never really thought otherwise; somehow he had just trusted that things would be fine. He was sure Brendan would have tracked him down to let him know if...well, if things hadn't worked out. But actually hearing it had felt good, he had to admit.

Mark sat down next to him on the step, also clutching a beer.

'Dobbing me in now, are you?' Peter said, a hint of accusation in his voice. Mark looked at his feet.

'He was worried about you, and rightly.'

'Hmm.'

'Did you ring?' Peter looked over at his brother. _Did he know everything?_ 'Father Johns said he'd tell you to ring.'

'Yeah. She's fine.' Peter sighed, emotions threatening to overwhelm him for what felt like the millionth time since he'd arrived.

_She's fine._

Mark patted him on the back. 'Good.'

* * *

Brendan pulled another pint for Padraig before moving down the bar to pull another. 'Getting paid for this, eh, barkeep?' Padraig teased.

'Not likely,' Brendan grumbled. Padraig grinned and took a sip of his pint.

'It's quiet in here without Assumpta,' he commented, almost sulking in his beer. Siobhan just looked at him.

'So I'll call her then? Get out of hospital and come and liven up the bar, Padraig's bored?' she said indignantly. Padraig sighed.

'Not what I meant, Siobhan,' he said, grasping his glass tightly. Siobhan raised an eyebrow and exchanged a look with Niamh, who shook her head. They turned as the door opened, and a man in a black suit and white dog-collar walked in.

'Father,' Niamh greeted him, forcing a smile. It felt strange calling the new priest that; she'd gotten so used to it being Peter. It had become a constant reminder that Peter was gone, and with it, a slight stab of hurt.

The new priest seemed nice. The English accent had been a shock at first, but she told herself she was getting used to it. He had introduced himself as Alex Jackson, and she guessed he was in his early thirties. He hadn't spent much time in Fitzgerald's at first; the English accent coupled with the uniform had been a bit much for most of the regulars, and he had clearly sensed that, obviously not knowing why. But he'd slowly started increasing his visits, and Niamh wondered when he'd start asking the harder questions. She wasn't sure she was going to be able to answer them.

'Niamh,' he replied, pulling up a chair at the bar next to Siobhan, nodding to the other three.

'How's Assumpta?' Padraig asked Brendan. 'Never got a chance to ask you yesterday.' Brendan's face hardened.

'She's getting better. Coming home soon.'

'Good,' Padraig replied. 'It'd be nice to be served with some cheer,' he said, nodding at Brendan, who just huffed at him and walked away.

Siobhan smiled at the new priest. 'So Father, where are you from?' she asked.

'Manchester, originally,' he replied. Siobhan exchanged a glance with Brendan, which didn't go unnoticed by the new priest. 'Is that a problem?' he asked tentatively, breaking the silence. Siobhan flashed a smile at him.

'No, Father, 'course not.' Alex didn't buy it. He looked over at Niamh, who wouldn't meet his gaze.

'The last one came from Manchester,' Brendan explained quietly. Alex nodded, clearly understanding he had wandered unwittingly and unintentionally onto dangerous ground.

'Another Englishman,' Padraig said into his glass. Brendan's eyes flashed.

'Padraig,' he said, warningly. Siobhan glared at Padraig, who looked taken aback.

'What? He's gone, isn't he?' Padraig's words were becoming more and more slurred. 'Didn't even say goodbye,' he muttered into his glass.

Brendan took a step forward, his voice quiet, but the fury evident. 'Whatever had happened to Peter, he gave up Ballyk and-' He stopped short of saying her name. 'And I don't think any of us believe he would do that lightly.'

Alex stared, wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

* * *

_I'm sorry it's taken so long to post the next chapter - silly work, demanding my time._

_As usual, any and all feedback greatly appreciated!_


	12. Chapter 12

Peter dropped the paint scraper into the bucket and wiped his forehead. It was only fifteen degrees outside, but he was sweating profusely. The paint was reluctant to leave the walls, even with the industrial strength paint stripper he'd bought.

Hearing footsteps, he turned to see Jack standing by the door. He smiled.

'Jack! I was beginning to think you weren't coming,' he said, walking over to the boy.

'Of course I was coming,' the boy said, a little indignant. 'I made a promise, didn't I?'

Peter nodded, contrite. 'You did. I shouldn't have doubted.'

Jack looked around the hall. 'What are you doing?'

'Giving her a new coat of paint,' Peter explained. 'Care to help?' Jack's eyes widened, and Peter grinned. 'Kidding, kidding. How's your head?'

'Fine.'

'Good.'

Peter looked up as a young woman walked in behind Jack. Jack turned. 'Father, this is my Mum.' Peter held out a hand only to pull it back quickly.

'Hi. Sorry, you probably don't want to shake,' he explained, holding up his filthy hands. She smiled tentatively at him.

'Father. I wanted to thank you for helping Jack,' she said, still smiling. 'I hate to think what might have happened,' she said, touching her son's shoulder. Peter waved her away.

'It was nothing. Right place, right time,' he said. 'It all worked out in the end.' She shook her head, clearly not quite sure to make of him. Peter sensed an opportunity. 'I'm Peter.'

'Emma,' she replied. 'Jack says you're the new priest in charge of the centre.' Peter nodded.

'That's me. I'm hoping to make a few changes, too.' She nodded.

'Jack mentioned. He doesn't have to go to church if he comes here now, does he?' she asked. Peter shook his head.

'No. He can come here whenever he likes, no obligations.' She nodded, satisfied.

'The last one…'

Peter nodded. Clearly his predecessor had ruled with an iron fist. 'Yes, I heard. Well, I'm in charge now, rules change,' he said brightly. 'Anyone is welcome.' He looked over to the storage room where Jack had wandered. 'In fact, I was hoping to start a futsal team.'

Emma raised her eyebrows, surprised. 'Really?'

'Yeah. I used to play when I was a kid. Kept me out of mischief,' he explained, and she nodded.

'Ever since…well, the boys around here have nothing much to do when school's not on.' Peter nodded, understanding. The Senior Constable had told him that youth crime had gone up in the area; Peter had discovered that first-hand. It had only made him more determined to get at least some of the boys into the centre on a regular basis, rather than out on the streets. Hopefully once he got some of them in, more would follow.

'Tell Jack he's welcome anytime. And to bring his friends.' She smiled.

'Thank you, Father.'

'Peter,' he said, uncomfortably, and she looked surprised. 'It's easier on the lads,' he explained.

He looked over a Jack who was now kicking a ball against one of the un-stripped walls. 'Jack plays, I see?'

'Used to.'

'Ah.' Peter walked over to him and Jack stopped kicking the ball.

'Don't stop, you're good. Your mum says you used to play.' Jack's face fell.

'Yeah. Used to.'

'What made you stop?'

'Got kicked off the team.' Peter raised an eyebrow.

'Let me guess. Fighting?' Jack looked up at him, his eyes narrow.

'How'd you know?'

Peter sighed. 'It seems to be a theme around here.'

* * *

Assumpta sighed, bored out of her mind. She had never been one to sit still, even now. Her foot was itchy, which both frustrated her and made her happy. It meant it was almost healed.

Her physio was going well, and her heart was getting stronger. She couldn't wait to get out of the hospital and back to her life as fast as possible.

_Life._

She closed her eyes, pushing her thoughts out of the past. She would go back to the bar, and things would be back to normal. Like they were before he arrived. Normal. Before she'd picked up the soaking priest on the side of the road. Before he'd wormed his way into her heart without even trying.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Leo.

_Leo._

_Ok, so maybe not quite normal. _

'Hiya,' he greeted her. 'How are you feeling?' She smiled.

'Good. Bored.'

'Feel up to a walk?' Assumpta looked at him.

'Where to?'

'Well, considering you can walk about as fast as a newborn lamb, I was thinking we'd just head out into the garden. The physio said you need to keep moving,' he almost argued.

'Uh, yeah, sure,' she said, swinging her legs slowly around to the edge of the bed. He was at her side instantly, helping her stand. She stopped, instantly irritated by him.

'I can walk, Leo.'

'Oh, really?'

She struggled to stand, realising quickly that she wasn't going to get far. She gave up.

'Ok, so maybe I need a little help,' she conceded, reaching out to lean on his arm. He put one arm around her waist, and she stiffened.

'I just need your arm.'

He let go of her slowly, putting his arm out for her. 'I'm sorry.'

'It's fine.' Assumpta steadied herself, and started slowly walking towards the door.

It took them a full ten minutes to walk the fifty metres to the garden. By the time they reached a wooden garden seat under a tree, Assumpta was puffing.

'Wow,' she said, sitting down carefully. 'I knew I was unfit, but really…' Leo smiled.

'You'll get it back soon.' They sat in silence for a few minutes. Leo opened his mouth to speak when he stopped and waved across the garden. Assumpta looked over to see Niamh approaching.

'I need to get back to work,' he said, turning to Assumpta.

'But you just got here,' she protested, before realising what she was saying. Leo couldn't help but smile as he stood. 'I didn't mean…' she trailed off, not knowing quite how to say what she wanted to say without hurting Leo.

'I know what you meant, Assumpta. I'll see you tomorrow,' he said, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek. She smiled awkwardly at him as he turned and walked away, waving to Niamh.

Niamh sat down next to her friend on the seat. 'I hope I wasn't interrupting something,' she said, watching Leo walk away.

'Nope.'

Niamh turned to look at her friend who was now fiddling with the cord on her sweater.

'He visits every day,' she started, as Assumpta protested.

'Niamh, don't start.'

'He sends you flowers, he brings you food…'

'Niamh!'

'Why can't you just give him a chance, Assumpta? You loved him once.' Assumpta continued fiddling with the cord, not looking up.

'Niamh, we've been here before. It didn't work. It couldn't work.'

'That's because Pet-' Niamh stopped, catching herself. Assumpta looked up sharply. 'I'm sorry. I know.' Assumpta looked back out over the garden. 'Assumpta, Leo's here now. Maybe this is a second chance,' she offered gingerly, avoiding Peter's name.

Maybe it was a second chance, she thought fleetingly, before banishing the thought. If she loved Leo, she'd push him away. It was her selfishness that had dragged him back into her life when she'd had no right to. She knew she didn't love him; not anymore. She couldn't do it again. Assumpta shook her head.

'I've already hurt him enough, Niamh. I can't do it a second time.'

* * *

Peter kicked the ball against the wall of the hall, warming up as much as possible before the boys arrived. He'd invited his four young offenders, Jack, and any of Jack's mates he wanted to bring along. None of them had committed, each of them trying to play it cool. Peter just prayed.

_You gave me this idea. You have to help me make it work._

He grabbed the ball and hurled it against the wall with all his might. He had thought that ringing Brendan would help; that knowing she was fine would be enough of a catalyst for him to move on.

He'd been wrong.

He hurled the ball against the wall again and again, catching it each time in his keeper's gloves, feeling the anger rage around inside of him. It was a feeling he was getting used to, and it worried him.

'Ah, you're a keeper,' he heard a young voice call out across the hall. He caught the ball and turned to see the four boys standing in the doorway.

'I am. What positions do you play?'

'I'm usually forward. James and Liam play mid, and Jonno's a back. But that's on a full field,' Michael replied, pointing to each of the boys. Peter nodded, and kicked the ball towards them.

'Show me what you can do,' he said. Michael caught the ball and smirked.

'Sure, thing, Father.'

As Peter took his stance in the goal mouth, he wondered what he'd gotten himself into. Sure, he wasn't old, but he was pushing thirty, and his reflexes weren't quite as quick as they used to be.

Michael put the ball on the ground about a quarter of the way down the court. He studied Peter for a few seconds, took a few steps back, ran in and kicked the ball. Peter reacted instantly, deflecting it with his right foot. Peter smiled to himself as he grabbed the ball from the corner of the room. Maybe he wasn't so bad. He threw it back at Michael, who repositioned himself and kicked again. This one was to the left this time, just a little higher, but Peter managed to get his knee to it and deflect it. Michael lined up again, and this time the ball found the top left-hand corner of the net. Peter applauded as he pulled himself up off the floor. Michael smiled smugly as he lined up the ball once more. Michael kicked another few times, getting past Peter twice more. By the time they stopped, Peter was sweating again.

'You're not bad, Father.'

'Thanks,' Peter replied, trying to hide his sore muscles. He was going to have some serious bruises tomorrow.

'Now, let's see what you three can do.' Peter had just thrown the ball to Jonno when he noticed Jack standing at the door, a group of boys standing behind him. 'Jack! Good of you to come,' he said, but Jack didn't reply. He was looking at Michael, his face hard. Peter looked at Michael, noticing that the three boys had moved to stand around him. Michael's expression matched Jack's; the look of contempt and hostility clear. Peter stepped in the two boys' line of sight. 'Lads. What's the problem?'

Jack looked at Peter. 'Remember that day you saved my life?' Jack asked.

'Yeah.'

Jack said nothing, but looked back over at Michael. Peter followed his gaze to Michael, who raised his chin slightly in defiance.

'No,' Peter said before he could stop himself. He sighed. Wonderful.

'I'm not playing with him,' Jack spat.

'We don't want you,' Michael replied.

'Boys!' Peter said loudly. 'Stop. Jack, Michael, come here. We're going to sort this out.' Peter looked between the two boys, who didn't move.

'NOW!' Peter yelled. Jack made the first move, his face still defiant. Michael mirrored his actions until the two boys were an arms' length from Peter. Peter took a step back so he wasn't directly between the boys, but close enough that he could get in the way fast. 'Right. What happened, Michael?'

Michael still looked defiant. Peter's temper flared. 'If you don't sort this out now, there'll be consequences,' he warned. He had no real idea what he'd do; he certainly wasn't going to hand the boys over to the police, and he didn't want to have to cancel the arrangement they'd made, but he couldn't let Michael and the boys off scot-free. They'd done the wrong thing, and they needed to know that. He prayed they wouldn't call his bluff.

Michael looked at Peter and back at Jack. 'He tried to steal my girl,' he declared.

'She's not your girl,' Jack shouted back.

'Enough!' Peter yelled, louder than both of them. 'You wait your turn,' he said, pointing at Jack, who crossed his arms. He turned to Michael. 'Is that what you were arguing about?'

'Yeah.'

'Right.' He turned to Jack. 'Is that true?'

'I didn't steal his girl!'

'Not that – that you were arguing about a girl?' Jack nodded. 'Ok.' He turned back to Michael.

'It was an accident, yes?' Michael nodded, and Peter turned to Jack. 'Yes?' Jack eyed him for a few moments, and then reluctantly nodded. Peter turned back to Michael.

'You shouldn't have run.' Michael started to protest, but Peter just spoke over him. 'I know it was an accident, and I know I was there, but you should have stayed.'

'I didn't want to get into trouble,' he admitted.

'It was an accident. You wouldn't have been in trouble.' Michael's eyes were hard.

'That's not how the cops around here would've seen it.'

'And I would have set them straight.' Michael looked at the ground. 'Now. Michael, you're going to apologise to Jack.' Michael started protesting again, until he saw the look on Peter's face.

'Whatever.'

'Michael,' Peter warned. Michael looked over at Jack.

'I'm sorry I left you there,' he said quietly.

'You should be,' Jack said acidly.

'Jack!' Peter glared at the boy, who had the decency to look vaguely ashamed. He kicked something on the ground before looking back up at Peter and Michael.

'It's ok.'

Peter exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. 'Good. Now, this girl,' he started, looking at the two boys, and raising his eyebrows. 'Who did she choose?'

The boys looked up, startled. The thought that she might have a say in her boyfriend clearly hadn't cross their minds. Peter stifled a smile.

'I suggest you find out, but like real men.' The boys stared at him. 'Ask her!' he said, as if it were obvious. 'And no more fighting, is that clear?' Both boys looked at each other and reluctantly nodded. Peter stifled another smile as he added a final command. 'Shake hands.'

The boys looked up at him sharply, before looking at each other. Peter looked straight back, his face calm.

'Go on, then.' The boys looked at each other, each reluctantly taking a step forward before reluctantly shaking hands. Peter rubbed his hands together.

'Right. Now, let's play, shall we?'

* * *

_Another slightly longer chapter. Holidays mean editing time!_

_Feedback is stupendous and greatly appreciated. It's nice to know someone's reading._


	13. Chapter 13

Assumpta sat on the edge of her bed. _Tomorrow_. Tomorrow she was going home.

_Home._

She sighed. As much as she was looking forward to it – her own bed, the pub, her privacy – she was dreading it. The fear in the pit of her stomach grew. She knew everyone would be pleased to see her, but that wasn't what was driving her fear.

It was herself. Her own reactions. Her own pain.

Returning to Ballykissangel, to the pub, to where she'd last seen him. Where he'd told her, with that silly grin on his face, that he loved her. She'd gone a little weak at the knees, but had covered it up by pretending to be annoyed. He'd seen right through it, like he always had, and she couldn't help but return his silly grin. Until the lights had gone out, and like the pub that night, everything was black from there.

She wished for a split second she had died that day; she would have died happy. Loved.

But instead, she had survived. A miracle, they'd told her. Well, if this was what miracles felt like, she didn't want one.

She sighed.

The memories were going to be the hardest.

* * *

Peter leapt into the air, deflecting a wild attempt at goal from Jack.

'Missed,' Michael grunted.

'Like you could do any better,' Jack threw back.

'You're just jealous.'

'Of what? You?'

'Boys!' Peter yelled and stepped in between the two. It had been non-stop bickering the entire session, and Peter was sick of it. After a few basic drills, he'd allowed the boys to choose their own teams – five-aside, with him eventually on Michael's team to even out the numbers – but it was a decision he regretted. They'd been at each other's throats all night. Peter knew what he had to do.

'Right. I've had enough. Michael, your team will be Jack, Brandon, Liam and me. Jonno, you're captain of the blue team. I will be rotating them every week.' The boys began to protest immediately, but the chorus of voices was quickly silenced by one withering look from Peter.

'If you are going to play as a team, you're going to work together as a team. Understood?' Peter said quietly. The boys looked mutinous, but said nothing. Peter kicked the ball over to Jonno, and headed back to his position in the goalmouth.

_Here goes nothing._

* * *

Peter sat on the steps of the community centre, enjoying the cool morning air and reflecting on his first time as coach. The boys had stopped bickering – well, at least within his hearing range – after he'd rearranged the teams, and they'd actually played well. Michael and Jack were both the standouts, despite refusing to pass the ball to each other, being content to pass it to Liam or Brandon only.

_This might just work._

Finally, something was going his way. Something was going right.

His thoughts were broken by the arrival of Jack's mother. She walked over to the steps of the centre, and Peter rose to greet her.

'Hello, Mrs…Emma,' he said. She smiled.

'Carter,' she said. 'Mrs Carter. But please call me Emma. Mrs sounds so…old.' Peter smiled. He studied the young woman standing in front of him. She couldn't be much older than he was, but Jack was easily 13 or 14. He wondered briefly what the story was. 'Can I?' She motioned towards the stairs, and he nodded.

'Yes, yes, please. Would you prefer to come inside? I have chairs,' he joked, and she smiled.

'No, I'm sorry - I don't really have time. I need to get to work.' Peter nodded as they sat on the steps.

'I wanted to thank you for what you're doing with Jack,' she said. He started to dismiss her thanks, but she shook her head. 'No, really. I don't know what happened at training last night, but he came home, and he was happier than I've seen him in months.' She looked down at her feet. 'He really misses football.'

Peter nodded. 'Well, I wasn't easy on them,' he conceded. 'But Jack has some serious potential.' She smiled again.

'He loves his football.' Peter nodded. She continued, a little hesitant. 'He mentioned that Michael was on the team. Do you know about what happened between him and Michael?' she asked, and Peter took a deep breath in. He'd promised the boys at the end that he wouldn't tell anyone about Jack's accident, and he wasn't about to break that promise. Too much was riding on his silence.

'I know they had a falling out,' he said diplomatically. She nodded.

'They used to be best friends.' Peter turned to look at her, shocked.

'Really?' She raised her eyebrows and smiled.

'Oh yes. Did everything together. That was, until they discovered girls.'

'Ah.'

'Yes.'

Peter sat thoughtfully. 'Well, we sort of…cleared the air a little last night, so to speak,' he said. Emma looked surprised. 'But I promised I wouldn't tell.' Emma nodded, understanding.

'As long as things sort themselves out,' she said. 'Things have been a little rough since Jack's father died.' Peter turned to her, shocked.

'I'm so sorry,' he said. It explained a lot, he thought – the anger and frustration he could see in the boy's eyes. He'd thought it was just a result of growing up in a rough area, but suspected it was more, and felt a little gratified to know he was right.

Emma smiled ruefully. 'It's ok. It was a few years ago now, but I know Jack misses him. We both do.' Peter nodded, all too understanding.

'It's hard on a kid, losing someone so important.' They sat in silence for a few minutes, both lost in thought, before Emma looked at her watch and jumped up.

'I'm late. Sorry, Father, I have to run.' Peter stood up.

'Peter, and of course. It was nice to talk to you.'

Emma smiled at him. 'Thanks, Peter.'

* * *

Peter ducked as he walked into the corner store. He was tall, and whilst generally an advantage, it also meant he needed to watch his head. Literally.

He was thinking about Jack and the information he'd received that morning. Emma had initially struck him as the single mother, worried about her son and lacking a male influence to help keep him in line. It explained a lot.

He was wondering how many of the boys were in the same situation when he turned a corner to see Jack standing in front of several buckets of flowers. The look on his face told Peter he had no idea what he was doing.

'Hey,' Peter said, sidling up to the boy. Jack jumped and turned to Peter, unsuccessfully trying to hide a guilty look. Peter raised an eyebrow. 'Who are these for?' he asked, already knowing the answer. Jack looked up at Peter, his expression one of uncertainty.

'They're for Jane. I was going to ask her out today, but…' he trailed off, looking back at the flowers. Peter smiled to himself.

'But you don't know what she'll say,' Peter guessed. Jack nodded forlornly.

'Yeah.' He looked at the flowers again. Peter put his hand on his shoulder.

'Scary, isn't it?' he mused, not only to Jack. He sighed deeply. Jack looked up at him.

'What do you think I should do?'

Peter looked serious. 'You've got to follow your heart. Your heart usually knows what to do.'

Jack frowned, concentrating. After a few seconds, he screwed up his mouth in determination. 'I'm going to ask her out today. Tell her she has to choose between me and Michael,' he said resolutely. Peter stifled a smile. The boy couldn't be more than 14, and yet he was talking like a man. Peter nodded, putting on a serious face.

'All right then. Now to the difficult decisions. What kind of flower does she like?' Jack just looked up at him helplessly. 'Ok, then…what's her favourite colour?' Jack looked helpless for a second before his face lit up.

'Yellow! She told me it was yellow once. But she doesn't wear yellow cause she reckons she looks bad in it,' he explained, clearly recalling a conversation. 'I said she'd look good in anything.' Peter couldn't hold in a chuckle at this point.

'Well, then, I think a bunch of yellow daffodils will work a treat,' Peter said. 'Girls like daffodils. They're simple and pretty.' Jack looked up at him, nodding.

'Yeah! Thanks, Father!' Peter grinned back.

'No problem.'

'See you at training tonight!' he yelled as he raced down towards the counter to pay for his flowers. Peter chuckled as he watched. He hoped it went well; the last thing he needed was for the girl to play them off each other.

'Sound advice, Peter,' a voice said from behind. Peter jumped and turned around to see Sam standing there, a wry grin on his face. Peter returned the wry smile and shook his head.

'Well, let's see what happens, shall we?'

* * *

_Another small-ish chapter. I hope you enjoy it. I'm on the downhill run with the writing, but we still have quite a way to go. Sorry!_

_Any and all feedback is very much appreciated._


	14. Chapter 14

'Father!'

Peter pulled his key out of the lock and turned to see William Jones walking up the stairs, his trademark black Mercedes parked out the front of the centre.

'Mr Jones!' he replied, surprised, shaking the businessman's hand.

'William, please. Can I come in?'

'Of course, please,' Peter replied, pushing the doors open. They walked through to the kitchen, where Peter put the kettle on. 'Tea?'

'I'd love to, but I'm just passing through.' He looked at Peter's attire – shorts and a t-shirt coupled with shin-guards and futsal shoes. 'Not the usual priest's garb, Father,' he commented.

'Oh, no. Training starts in a few minutes.'

'Ah. Heard about that. Going well?'

'Seems to be,' he said as he poured himself a cup of tea. 'Jack – the boy from the road – is on the team,' he said. 'Not a bad kid, actually.'

'Ah, so he's fine, then?'

'Yup. Nice little scar on his head, but I think he likes it.'

'Good, good.' Jones looked around the tired kitchen; it had seen better days. 'Have you thought about my offer, Father?' he said, waving his hand around the kitchen. Peter raised his eyebrows, confused, before the memory returned. The free renovation with a catch. Peter shook his head.

'I'm actually in the middle of repainting it myself,' he replied, 'with a little help.' William nodded.

'Ahh, yes, the community service boys. That sure won you a few points around here,' he said.

'It's my job,' Peter replied, as if it were obvious.

'The last guy didn't think so.'

Peter nodded, conceding that point. 'It's going really well, I think.'

Jones nodded as they walked out into the half-finished hall, and over to the storage room. 'But you could definitely use some new equipment, yes?' he said, as he fingered the ripped nets of the futsal goals. Peter grimaced and nodded reluctantly.

'Yes, I suppose we could.'

'It'd just be a few signs here and there, and maybe an article in the local paper,' Jones said. Peter raised his eyebrows; the resemblance was uncanny… He shook his head quickly, returning to the present.

'I'd have to ask permission,' he started.

'Ah, don't worry about that. Bishop Morris and I go way back.'

_That could come in handy_, Peter thought, as he filed that piece of information away for later.

'Just think about it, yeah?' Jones said, patting Peter on the arm.

'I will,' he said, as Jones began to walk away. 'Mr Jones – William – excuse me for asking this, but…what's in it for you?' Peter asked tentatively. Jones smiled.

'You're a smart man,' he said, smiling wryly at Peter. 'But I like to repay my debts, Father. And I feel I owe this place a debt,' he said, looking around the hall. 'I owe this place a lot,' he said thoughtfully. 'But that's a story for another time. See you later, Father.'

'Bye.'

Peter shook his head, surveying the equipment. Jones was right; the shed could definitely use some updating. But Peter hated the idea of advertising in the hall. It just didn't sit right with him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. Peter watched as Michael walked in to the hall, dressed and ready for training. He looked deep in thought. Peter studied him for a second while he dropped the bag he was carrying and wandered over to the court, not looking up. Peter raised his eyebrows; something had happened today, and he bet it had something to do with Jack. He picked up the ball, called out, and threw it at Michael. Michael looked up as the ball hit him in the shoulder. Peter frowned. Michael looked miserable, no matter how much he tried hiding it.

'Michael, you look terrible. What's up?' he asked.

'Nothing.'

'Right; that's why you look like your dog has just died.' Peter stopped, his face suddenly concerned. 'It didn't, did it? Do you have a dog?'

Michael looked up at him. 'I did what you said,' he said miserably. Peter frowned, confused. 'I asked Jane,' Michael said, as if speaking to an idiot.

'Ohh, yeah.' Peter grimaced. 'Didn't go well?' he guessed.

'Nah. She said she didn't like me like that,' he said. 'What does that even mean?' he threw his arms up in the air, frustrated.

'Well, I guess that means she just wants to be friends,' Peter said. Michael looked at him, realising he was confessing his feelings to a priest. Peter watched as his defences went up.

'Ah, she's not all that,' he said dismissively, kicking the ball against the wall. Peter grinned to himself.

'There'll be other girls, Michael,' he said. 'You're only 14.' Michael grunted and continued to kick the ball against the wall. The other boys slowly wandered in, and he sent them on a run around the hall. Jack arrived last, looking dejected. Peter stifled a smile and walked over to him.

'How'd it go? Did she like the flowers?' he asked. Jack scrunched his face up.

'She said they were the best flowers she'd ever gotten,' he said, sighing as if the weight of the world was resting heavily on his shoulders. 'But she just wants to be friends,' he said miserably, throwing his back against the wall. Peter raised his eyebrows, amused. Things had worked out better than he could have imagined.

'Well, that's not all bad, then, is it?' he said. Jack looked at him as if he had sprouted a second head. 'At least she wants to be friends. Maybe one day in the future she'll in you what I see in you and then you can make your move.' Jack looked up, a little dubious.

'You think so?'

'Trust me. Just wait patiently. It might be a while, but you'll see,' he said, a knowing look on his face. Jack thought it over and smiled.

'Yeah. I'll wait.' Jack frowned up at him. 'For a priest, you sure know a lot about girls,' he said, looking slightly confused. Peter smiled.

'I wasn't always a priest,' he laughed. Jack looked slightly less confused, but the thought of Peter as anything other than the local priest was clearly a difficult one for him. Peter gently swiped the back of his head.

'Get off on a run, then. And don't be late to training again or I'll make you do the warm up twice.'

Peter shook his head and sighed to himself, thinking about the advice he'd given to the boys. The advice he himself couldn't follow. Wouldn't follow. Confusion and pain still reigned in his heart, no matter how much he tried to bury it. He'd done the right thing, he was sure. He was a man of his word, and there was no way he was going back on a deal with his Maker. But if it was the right thing, why did it still hurt so much?

* * *

Assumpta didn't look up as Leo walked through the door.

'Hiya,' he said. 'Packing already?'

'I want to be out of here early tomorrow,' she answered. He sat down on the chair.

'How are you getting home?' he asked.

'I've rung Niamh,' she said distractedly, folding up a shirt, before throwing it down. 'I can't drive for months. How am I going to pick up stock?' she wondered out loud, her hands on her hips, still not looking up at him.

'I could help with that,' he replied. Assumpta looked at him quizzically.

'You've got a job, Leo. You can't be running back and forth between Ballyk and Dublin,' she said before noticing the look on his face. The realisation hit her like a freight train at full speed, and she stared at him. 'Leo, why did you keep coming back?' she asked slowly.

'I wanted to make sure you were ok.' He looked down at his feet, and then back up at her, his face serious. 'I still love you, Assumpta, even if things didn't work out the first time.'

'Oh, Leo,' she whispered, looking down at her suitcase. She felt foolish. Why hadn't she thought of this before? Of course he wanted to come back to Ballyk with her. He wanted to start over. He wanted that second chance. Especially now that _he_ was gone.

'Please, Assumpta, just listen.' She stopped and leant against the edge of the bed, giving her foot a rest. He took a deep breath. 'I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.'

'Leo, we've tried this. You hated Ballyk,' she said, almost pleadingly.

'I didn't hate Ballyk,' he said quietly. 'I hated being the third wheel.' She looked up at him sharply, her face hardening instantly. 'I knew what was going on, Assumpta.'

'Nothing was going on!' she cried. 'What do you think I am?'

'It wasn't you I was worried about.'

She narrowed her eyes, the anger flaring up in an instant. _How dare he?_ 'This has nothing to do with him,' she said quietly, her voice stony.

'I'm not stupid, Assumpta. I have eyes. And I know what a man in love looks like.'

'You have no right-'

'You are my wife!' he shouted. Assumpta leant back, surprised by the sudden burst of emotion. Leo realised how loud he had shouted and took a deep breath. 'You were my wife, and you still are.' He threw his hands up in the air, standing up. He turned to face her, his face hard. 'He's gone, Assumpta! He's gone, and he's not coming back!'

Assumpta glared at him, her anger masking the pain she felt. His words were like daggers. She knew he was right, but she couldn't admit it. Not to him. She was too stubborn.

'He left you here. I spoke to the nurses. He stuck around long enough to make sure you were alive, and then he left. He hasn't called, and he hasn't come back. He _isn't_ coming back.' Leo took a deep breath, his face softening. '_I'm_ here. Can't you see that?'

Assumpta's nerve failed her, and she couldn't stop the silent tears from falling down her face. She stared at him, her tears mingled with her fury. She desperately wanted to take him up on his offer; to have him carry her back into the pub, to pretend everything was ok, to start a new life. But she knew how that story ended, Peter Clifford or no Peter Clifford. She didn't love Leo, and nothing was going to change that, no matter how hard they tried.

She shook her head.

'I'm sorry, Leo. I'm sorry.'

* * *

_Another piece of the puzzle slots into place..._

_I'm really appreciating all the feedback and suggestions. Please keep them coming!_


	15. Chapter 15

Assumpta stared blankly at the wall as she waited for Niamh. She hadn't slept much; her conversation with Leo constantly replaying itself in her mind. She had briefly wondered if she'd made the right choice, but she knew she had. She loved him too much to allow him to give up his life for her; for a woman who didn't truly love him in return.

Assumpta sighed. Even love wasn't enough sometimes, she mused.

She heard a set of footsteps and looked up.

'Leo?'

'Hi.' She looked at him, confused. 'I just wanted to bring you these,' he said, handing her a large envelope. She took it, still confused.

'What…?'

'Open it.'

Assumpta opened the large envelope in her hands. Inside was a document of some kind; a long one, judging by its thickness. Assumpta glanced at Leo, not really noting the resigned look on his face. She pulled the document out and read the first few words of the front page.

_Decree of Nullity. _

Assumpta looked up at Leo, stunned. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

'Turns out you have to give three months' notice of a wedding in Ireland, not one.' Assumpta stared at him, the shock slowly subsiding. She looked back down at the papers. 'I've already signed my parts. All that's left to do is sign yours.'

Assumpta blinked. 'An annulment?'

'I had a friend look around for me. You have to wait four years to even start divorce proceedings in Ireland. This way is much quicker.'

Assumpta didn't know what to say; words had failed her. She hadn't even really thought about divorcing Leo; they'd never even really talked about it when she'd followed him to Dublin. _He clearly had_, she thought.

'How long have you had these?' Leo smiled humourlessly.

'I had them drawn up not long after you returned to Ballyk.' Her eyes widened.

'So soon…' she whispered.

'I knew I'd lost that battle,' he said sombrely. 'I don't really think I ever stood a chance.' Assumpta fought the tears that threatened to overtake her. What had she done to him? She'd used him. Used him to get over Peter. Used and abused. She realised how much she loathed herself in that moment. She closed her eyes.

'I'm so sorry, Leo,' she whispered. He took a step forward and pulled her into a hug.

'I know.'

* * *

The centre was quiet again, a silence that Peter dreaded. He busied himself tidying up and locking up the centre, making a mental note to buy a pump for the balls. He sat on the steps of the centre, pulling his shin pads off. He looked down the street at the store, smiling as he remembered his conversation with Jack earlier that day. He felt almost hypocritical giving relationship advice when his own life was in tatters.

He closed his eyes, his mind betraying him. He was a hypocrite. He preached that God was love, and yet he wasn't even sure what he believed.

_I don't believe a God of love would punish a man like that._

He didn't know what to think any more.

He rolled his eyes as he saw Sam walking up the dusky street. The man always seemed to know when to catch him at his weakest.

'Sam.'

'Peter.' Sam sat down on the steps next to Peter, surveying the view. They sat in silence for a few moments.

'Training go well?'

'Yep. They're talented boys. It's easy, when they're not biting each other's heads off.' Sam chuckled.

'Sounds about right.'

They sat in silence for a few moments. Peter continued to pack up his shin pads, putting them in his bag, along with his socks.

'You're still not sleeping.' Peter turned his face away from the priest. He just wanted to be left alone. He didn't want to answer any more questions about Ballykissangel or Assumpta or his nightmares. He just wanted to work at forgetting her. Forgetting everything.

'I'm getting there.' Sam turned to look at him, disbelief on his face. Peter rolled his eyes. 'Ok, so no.'

'What are you going to do about this, Peter?' Peter shook his head in disbelief.

'I'm trying, Sam. I really am. No one wants sleep more than I do right now,' he muttered. Sam didn't reply, and they sat in silence for a few minutes.

'You did a good job with that boy today. You've got a real heart for those boys,' Sam stated.

'I feel for them. I was one of them, once.'

'I know.' Sam stood.

'I still think you gave him some excellent advice, Peter.'

* * *

_Another chapter because I'm not sure I'll get another one out tomorrow, and it's only very short. We're almost halfway, if you want to hang in... It'll all be over soon._

_Any and all feedback greatly appreciated, as usual._


	16. Chapter 16

Peter smiled, satisfied, as he surveyed the walls of the hall. Almost completely stripped back. The boys had finally finished the lower part of the wall, and Peter had finished the upper half of two of the walls. Thankfully he didn't need to do any higher; it was just sheet metal from about two metres to the roof. They'd even managed to rinse the stripped walls off in preparation for the paint.

The boys gulped down their juice. 'Well, that's it for today,' Peter said, to the cheers of the four boys. 'I'll see you tonight for training.'

The boys raced off, shouting goodbye as they left. Peter smiled to himself. He was slowly making inroads; they didn't trudge into the building the way they used to, and he'd even got them talking about a variety of topics while they worked. Michael was still the hard nut. He'd given nothing since his rejection by the now infamous Jane.

Peter was just cleaning up when he heard footsteps approach.

'Peter,' greeted Sam.

'Sam.'

'You've been busy,' Sam commented, subtly surveying his curate. Nothing much had changed since their conversation the previous night, not that Sam had expected it to. The bags underneath Peter's eyes still betrayed the lack of sleep, and he looked gaunt, although Sam noticed his shoulders seemed a little broader. 'Community service going well?' he asked, pointing to the walls.

'Yeah, great. We'll start painting next week.'

'Great to hear. News of your futsal team is reaching my ears.' Peter raised his eyebrows.

'Oh.'

Sam chuckled. 'Not in a bad way. The people are glad to see the hall being used again,' he explained. Peter nodded. 'You're becoming quite popular, Peter.' Peter frowned.

'What do you mean?'

'Saving a young boy's life, rescuing a group of boys from jail, and starting a futsal team all in less than two months? The people I speak to are talking of miracles,' he said, clearly amused. Peter's eyes widened.

'Well, it's my job, isn't it? Serving the community?' Sam chuckled.

'Sure is.' He sighed. 'Unfortunately, news of your success has also reached the ears of the new Bishop,' he stated.

'Ah.' Sam nodded.

'He wants to see you tomorrow at 3pm.'

'I have training!' Peter protested.

'I can supervise the boys until you get back.' Peter frowned. Sam shook his head. 'Peter, tread carefully. Bishop Morris is…' He shook his head. 'Well, I guess you'll see for yourself.'

* * *

Peter tugged at his collar, trying to straighten it. He wanted things to go well. No, he _needed_ things to go well. He was just starting to make inroads at the centre. Several new boys had expressed interested in joining the team, and he was hoping to possibly start a second team. Groups of kids were wandering in after school each day to 'check out the new priest', he'd been told. Most of them had started coming back, and he'd already had several of the girls ask him about starting a youth group. Things were going well.

Even though he felt rushed off his feet, he still wasn't so busy that he didn't think of Assumpta at least a million times a day. Her face was constantly in his dreams and nightmares; she was all he could think about when he had a moment alone. He knew Sam was right: things weren't getting better. But he'd managed to hide it fairly successfully from Mark and Sam; at least, they'd stopped pestering him as much. He knew Sam was still watching him carefully.

'You can go in now,' the Bishop's assistant said, opening the door for him.

He smiled and said thank you before walking through the door into the familiar office. Peter noticed the pictures of smiling family were gone now; the shelf was bare, save for a few books.

'Ah, Father Clifford.' Bishop Morris stood from behind his desk. 'Please, take a seat.'

'Your Grace,' he said, before sitting on one of the chairs at the desk. He had a momentary flashback to Father Mac's office.

'I understand you are new here as well,' Bishop Morris started. He was an older man, like most of the Bishops Peter had known; probably in his early seventies, Peter thought. He had very little hair left, and his grey eyes were sharp.

'Ah, well, kind of. I used to live in Manchester before I was in Ireland.'

'Ah, yes, Ireland.' The Bishop shook his head. 'Completely different to the big city.'

'Yes, Your Grace. I enjoyed it.' The Bishop eyed him.

'Why have you returned?' Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

'Father MacAnally felt I was needed here,' he replied. Not _completely_ untrue.

'Hmm.' The Bishop sipped his tea. 'I understand you are in charge of the community centre?'

Peter nodded. 'Yes, Your Grace. It's really going well at the moment; we have a futsal team going, and we're hoping to start a basketball team soon,' Peter offered, but stopped. He sensed the Bishop didn't really care about futsal or basketball.

'Father Johns mentioned you have some young men working with you who attempted to rob the centre,' he said. Peter didn't like where this was going, but chose to ignore the Bishop's tone and stay positive.

'Yes, I do. They're doing community service, instead of the alternative,' he explained. The Bishop eyed him, his face stern.

'And do you think this is a wise course of action, Father?' Peter frowned, confused.

'I don't understand, Your Grace.' The Bishop sighed.

'Do you think giving a group of young thugs access to the very centre they tried to rob is a good idea?'

Peter stared at the bishop. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

'It has been very successful, Your Grace,' he replied, his voice steely. 'They haven't reoffended since.'

'Hmm.' The bishop took another sip of his tea. 'I would like you to keep a close eye on things, Father. You are in a rough area, and I would hate to be forced to do something I don't want to do.'

Peter stared at the Bishop, stopping himself from asking for more detail. 'I will, Your Grace.'

* * *

Peter got off the bus and walked down the street towards the church. The conversation with the Bishop had unnerved him. He was used to a hard line – he'd had that enough with Father Mac – but Bishop Morris didn't seem as…forgiving…as Father Mac had been. The veiled threat about the centre worried him; he would need to make sure the boys were exceptionally well behaved from now on. Peter shook his head. That was going to be difficult.

He walked through the church to the sacristy. He knew Sam would be preparing for Mass. He knocked on the door.

'Come in.' Peter walked through to see Sam sitting at his desk.

'Peter! How did it go?' he asked, his face reserved. Peter frowned.

'Well, you were right about a different cloth.' Sam frowned at Peter's reply. 'He seemed less than impressed with my community service.'

'Ah.'

'If I recall rightly, he referred to them as a 'group of young thugs'.' Sam grimaced.

'Yes. Well, let's just hope that's the final word, shall we?' Peter nodded, but he felt uneasy. He had a feeling that Bishop Morris didn't leave well alone.

* * *

'Hiya, ready to go?' Niamh asked as she rounded the corner into Assumpta's room. She stopped when she noticed Assumpta staring out the window.

'Assumpta?' she asked tentatively. Assumpta turned.

'Oh, hi. Yep, I'm ready,' she said distractedly, putting the last of her things in a bag and zipping it up. Niamh frowned.

'Assumpta, what happened?'

Assumpta didn't look up. 'Nothing. I'm fine,' she replied automatically. Eventually she looked up, and Niamh gave her a look. Assumpta shook her head resignedly.

'Leo brought these earlier,' she said, handing Niamh the envelope. Niamh frowned, confused, before opening the envelope. She pulled out the paperwork, reading the front page.

Her head jerked up, her wide eyes meeting Assumpta's hard ones. Assumpta nodded in reply. 'It's fine. Should have been done months ago,' she said dismissively, returning to her packing. Niamh put the paperwork back in the folder.

'What…'

'Apparently we didn't give the registry office enough notice,' she said. Niamh's shoulders slumped.

'So that's it, then?' Assumpta shot her a look.

'Niamh, that's always been it,' she replied. Niamh looked crestfallen.

'I guess I just hoped.'

'You shouldn't have,' Assumpta replied a little too harshly. Niamh shot her a hurt look, and Assumpta sighed. 'I'm sorry, Niamh.'

Niamh sighed. 'Yeah, I know.'

'It's for the best, Niamh. Now we can both get on with our lives,' Assumpta said determinedly. Niamh frowned, but didn't push the issue. She'd known there was only a slim chance, but she was still disappointed. She just wanted to see her friend happy. And maybe a playmate for Kieran, she admitted to herself.

'I'd better get you back. Can't be late to your own surprise party,' she said, changing the subject with an innocent look on her face. Assumpta looked up in shock.

'Niamh!' Niamh couldn't help but smile wryly at her friend's reaction.

'Ah, they wanted to celebrate,' she said. Assumpta shot her a look.

'You know I hate surprises,' she said, clearly annoyed. Niamh shot her a look back.

'It's not just about you, you know. There are a lot of people looking forward to your return,' she chided. Assumpta sighed.

'And I suppose it's at my pub?' she asked.

'Where else?' Niamh said, innocently. 'Ah, quit your complaining. At least they care.'

Assumpta sighed, steeling herself. It would all be over soon, she told herself. People would move on, begin to let it all go.

Who was she kidding? They were never going to forgive Peter for what he did. Even if - for them - it was just deserting Ballyk without saying goodbye.

She couldn't deny she felt a little sorry for him.

* * *

_Any and all feedback much loved and greatly appreciated._


	17. Chapter 17

Peter sat on the steps of the community centre, waiting. He'd received a call from a teacher at the local school; apparently, some of the boys – including Michael – hadn't been doing their homework, and so they were stuck in detention for the afternoon. Michael was also in trouble for drawing – on the walls of the school. Apparently his artwork – something for which he was renowned, apparently – was not appreciated by the Principal.

His teacher had rung Peter because Michael had been upset that he'd miss his community service and get into even more trouble. Peter had told her to tell Michael not to worry, and that he was to call past on his way home to reschedule. He'd already sent the others home, telling them he'd let them know when to come back.

He sighed. He'd thought about what he'd say to Michael. He wasn't going to let him get away with not doing his homework; no matter how little education seemed to matter to the boys, he knew it needed to be a priority, especially growing up in this area where opportunity didn't always swing their way. But he didn't want to get the boy off-side, not when he was getting so close.

After much thought, he had decided that on futsal training days, Michael was to bring his completed homework to training, otherwise Peter wouldn't let him train. He'd threaten that if he missed too many trainings, he'd be off the team. Peter hoped it wouldn't get that far; he hoped this one scare would be enough. It was going to be a difficult discussion, he knew.

He looked up as Michael came walking down the street in the semi-darkness.

'Hey,' Peter greeted him. Michael huffed as he sat down, clearly annoyed.

'Hi.'

'So, what's this about homework?' Peter asked, trying to keep the mood light. Michael just looked at his feet and shrugged. Peter tried again. 'I know homework isn't the most interesting way to spend your time, but it's got to be done.'

Michael shrugged. 'Why? It's not going to change anything.'

Peter frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'Everyone in my family has dropped out before the end of high school,' Michael explained.

'Ah.' Peter nodded, understanding. 'That doesn't mean you have to do the same,' he said. Michael just shook his head.

'Whatever.'

'I mean it, Michael. That's a decision only you can make,' Peter said, pointing to him. Michael didn't say anything. 'What do your parents say?'

'They reckon I should quit when I can and get a job.'

'Ah.' Peter sighed. That made it difficult. 'And what do you want to do?' Michael shrugged. Peter pushed harder. 'Surely there's something you want to do when you're older,' he argued. Michael shrugged his shoulders again.

'Doesn't matter.'

'Yes, it does.' Michael looked up at him, confusion and mild annoyance on his face.

'What do you care?' Peter raised his eyebrows.

'What do I care? Well, I guess I care enough to save you from jail,' he started. 'I guess I care enough to want to start a futsal team again. I guess I care enough to let you off this afternoon,' he continued, and Michael nodded.

'Alright, alright. But why? No one cares about us. We're just trouble,' he said, his tone bitter. Peter shook his head.

'I was one of you, once.' Michael's head shot up, and Peter nodded. 'I grew up just a few minutes from here. My dad died when I was little, and my mum raised me and my brother. If it hadn't been for my mum and a few close friends, my life could have turned out very differently.'

Michael stared at him. 'What made you change?' he asked.

'I made a decision. I figured out what I had to do to get where I wanted to go, and what my priorities were, and worked hard,' he said. 'It wasn't easy, but I made sure I asked for help when I needed it-' He prodded Michael in the arm here – 'and I got through.' Michael studied the ground. 'So what do you want to do?' Peter pushed.

'Dunno.' Peter raised an eyebrow.

'Really?'

Michael shrugged.

'I want to play football.' Peter nodded, knowing that's exactly what he'd say.

'Ok, so how are you going to get there?' he asked. Michael turned to look at him, surprised.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, what are you going to prioritise in your life? If you love football, and you want to make it a big part of your life, what do you have to do?'

Michael thought about it. 'I guess I'll have to train a lot.' Peter nodded. 'And practice.' Peter nodded again.

'What about school?' Michael shrugged.

'Don't need school to play football,' he said, but Peter shook his head.

'I disagree. You need to be smart to play football,' he argued. 'And what happens if there's an accident and you destroy your knee? Or your ankle?' Michael sighed.

'I'll need something else to do.'

'It's always a good idea to have a back-up plan. Just in case.' Michael nodded reluctantly, and then turned to the priest.

'What's yours?'

Peter looked at him, surprised. 'What do you mean?'

'What's your back-up plan?'

Peter raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. 'I don't really have one,' he said, his mind flashing back to his conversation with Assumpta at the lake. He had never thought he might need one - his particular vocation tended to be for life - until that moment. He dropped his eyes. 'I guess I should take my own advice, shouldn't I?' he said ruefully. _Not that it matters now_.

'I think I'd like to be a mechanic,' Michael said. Peter turned to him.

'That's a good backup plan,' he said. 'Achievable.' Michael nodded.

'So, let's make a deal,' Peter said, and Michael groaned. 'You're not getting away that easily,' Peter laughed. 'You bring me your finished homework before training on training days, and you get to play.' Michael looked at him, frowning, weighing up his options, before nodding slowly.

'Ok.'

'And no more drawing on school walls, yes?' Michael frowned at him. 'Your teacher told me.'

'Oh.'

'I hear you're quite talented,' Peter said. Michael shrugged.

'I like it.'

'You get As in art class – when you hand in the assignments,' Peter added. Michael almost smiled.

'Yeah.'

'So why don't you do something with that? If you're that talented, maybe you could turn that into a career.' Michael shook his head.

'My Mum says that's not a good job.'

'Oh.'

'Yeah.'

'Well, there's nothing to say you can pursue it in your own time,' Peter said. 'God gave us all talents, and expects us to use them,' he said. Michael nodded.

'So stick to drawing on paper, and bring your homework to training.' Peter held out his hand. 'Deal?'

Michael took his hand and they shook. 'Deal.'

* * *

'Now, act surprised,' Niamh commanded. Assumpta rolled her eyes.

'Alright, alright.'

Niamh raced around to help Assumpta get out of the car. She was still a little unstable, but she could walk almost completely unassisted. Niamh helped pull her out, and handed her the walking stick. Assumpta glared at her.

'I am not using that.' Niamh rolled her eyes.

'You don't have a choice, Assumpta. If you don't, you'll be off your feet in second.' Niamh eyed her. 'Just give it a go, Assumpta. Stop being so pig-headed.' Assumpta glared at her, but grabbed the walking stick.

'I feel like an invalid.'

'You're lucky to be alive,' Niamh countered, turning open the door. 'Now, remember, surprised. And try to look happy,' she whispered. Assumpta threw her a look and walked through the door.

'SURPRISE!' came the cheers, and Assumpta couldn't help but grin. Everyone was there: Brendan, Siobhan, Padraig, Brian – even Kathleen had deigned to set foot in Fitzgerald's. They had gone to great lengths to decorate the bar as well, streamers and balloons everywhere. She walked over to the entrance of the bar, where Brendan stopped her.

'Ah! Not today. You're the party girl,' he said grabbing her by the shoulders and slowly turning her around.

'You'd better enjoy it, Assumpta! Ain't gonna happen for long,' Padraig shouted from the other end of the bar. Assumpta smiled ruefully and walked up to where he and Siobhan were sitting. Siobhan stepped over to give her a hug.

'Nice to have you home,' she whispered, and helped Assumpta up onto the stool. Brendan appeared in front of her with a glass of wine, which she took gladly, until Niamh appeared at her side.

'You aren't supposed to be drinking,' she said.

'Ah, she can have half a glass,' Siobhan said. 'I'll keep an eye on her.' Niamh didn't look happy, but didn't argue further.

It wasn't long before Assumpta grew tired; she hadn't spent much time around people in two months, and was eager for bed. She started extricating herself from the conversation, when she noticed the look on Padraig's face. He looked over at Siobhan who turned to see who he had seen. Assumpta whipped her head around. Her breath caught in her throat.

It was him.

Black suit. Black shoes. Dog collar.

In that split-second she felt light-headed and gripped the bar for support, the lights suddenly becoming very bright. She looked up at his face and blinked.

She suddenly let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding, as the unfamiliar face in the very familiar uniform headed over to her. She rushed to pull herself together, mentally chastising herself for her behaviour, keenly aware of the multiple sets of eyes watching her.

_He is not coming back._

She plastered a small smile on her face just at the stranger approached her.

'Ms Fitzgerald? I'm Father Jackson,' he said, smiling carefully.

_Accent._

She felt fresh waves of panic roll over her, but she forced herself to smile at him.

'Hi,' she said, more weakly than she would have liked. She cleared her throat. 'So, you're the new priest?' she asked, more to cover her shock than out of interest.

'Yes, I am. It's a beautiful town,' he replied, smiling.

'Yes,' she replied automatically. Niamh came to her rescue.

'You'll have to excuse us, Father, but it's been a long day,' Niamh said, as she stood at Assumpta's side. Assumpta smiled at the priest as she hopped off the stool.

'Father.'

Alex nodded. 'Nice to meet you.'

* * *

Assumpta lay on her bed, enjoying the familiar feeling of her own mattress, her own sheets. She was glad to be home, she told herself. Glad to be back in her pub.

She picked up a pillow and threw it across the room. She was furious with herself. Her reaction to the new priest – to absolutely nothing – had been bad. She'd almost panicked, only just pulling herself out in time. She needed to deal with this, and quickly.

She needed to forget Peter Clifford.

* * *

_All feedback/questions/thoughts/comments/notes pointing out gaping plot holes greatly appreciated!_


	18. Chapter 18

Peter groaned as he put down the phone. The Bishop wanted to see him again. It had been several weeks since his last visit, and he'd hoped that the Bishop had forgotten about him, but apparently not. He sighed as he walked out into the hall, eyeing his watch. He would have enough time to walk down to the church to see if Sam could run training again before he'd need to catch the bus to the Bishop's office.

He walked quickly down the street, calling out to Sam who was standing outside the church.

'I've been summoned,' Peter announced. Sam sighed.

'Any explanation?'

'Nope,' Peter replied, annoyed. 'I have to be there at 3pm. Could you supervise training again?'

'Of course.'

'Thanks,' Peter said, turning to leave.

'Peter?' He turned back to Sam. 'Just pray.'

Peter arrived at the Bishop's office with Sam's words of advice ringing in his ears.

_Just pray._

He had done so for most of the short trip to the Bishop's office. Whatever the Bishop wanted, Peter knew it wasn't going to be good.

He sat down in the waiting room, trying to quell the butterflies in his stomach. He knew how much the centre meant to him; it was the only thing keeping him going. It helped keep him busy, kept his mind off Assumpta and Ballyk. It gave him purpose again; reminded him of why he became a priest in the first place.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost three. Peter forced himself to sit still and wait patiently.

After what felt like an eternity, his assistant appeared from behind the door and ushered Peter in. The office hadn't changed; the shelves were still bare, save for those few books.

'Father Clifford, thank you for coming,' the Bishop greeted, motioning toward the chair.

'Good afternoon, Your Grace.'

'Father, I've been looking into the financial state of the parish, and what I have discovered does not please me.'

Peter felt his heart rate increase, but forced himself to stay calm. 'Your Grace?'

'I've also been in discussions with the archbishop about your…arrangement…with the young men caught stealing at the community centre.'

Peter nodded, the uneasiness he'd walked in with only increasing.

'Your Grace, I am aware of your concerns, but I can assure you, the community service the boys are completing in lieu of their jail time is having a very positive impact on the community,' Peter started. The Bishop raised his hand.

'Father Clifford, we are not in the habit of condoning stealing. We would prefer it if this community service ceased immediately.' Peter stared at the bishop, his mouth open. He had expected some kind of sanction, but not this.

'Your Grace-' he started, but the bishop held up a hand.

'You may continue your other activities at the centre for now.' Peter tensed his jaw, furious, but biting back his retorts.

'For now, Your Grace?' he said, through gritted teeth.

'The area you are currently serving in does not consider church one of their highest priorities, Father.' Peter eyed the bishop, apprehensive. 'As such, the cost of running a community centre is becoming untenable.' Peter's jaw dropped.

'You're going to sell the centre?' he asked, barely able to contain his rage. The Bishop frowned at him.

'Father, need I remind you that the Catholic Church has its own bills to pay? If the community is not going to support the centre, then I am sorry to say that it cannot continue to stay open.'

Peter felt like he'd been hit by a bus. His heart started beating heavily in his chest, drowned out only by the deafening silence that had now overtaken the room.

Sell the centre. After all the work he'd put in – _they'd_ put in.

_Michael. _

_Jack. _

'Your Grace, you can't sell the community centre.'

The Bishop turned from his tea to look at him, his eyebrows raised. 'Father,' he said warningly.

'Your Grace, the young people in that area have nowhere to go. There is a distinct correlation between the popularity of a community centre and the youth crime rate in a city. The youth crime rate has already dropped in the last month,' he cried.

'And why was it high in the first place? Was not the centre open, Father?' the Bishop asked. Peter clenched his jaw.

'It was, Father, but the previous priest had placed certain…restrictions…on the centre's use.' Peter could see the battlefield in front of him, and he'd lost. It was pointless. The bishop had weaved a net for him, and Peter had fallen straight in.

'Ahh, yes, I have heard about these 'restrictions'. Compulsory church attendance doesn't sound so bad to me, Father.' Peter shook his head.

'Service to the community shouldn't come with conditions, Your Grace,' he replied through gritted teeth.

'I don't think those conditions were too harsh, Father. And clearly the community weren't interested in the church, were they, Father?'

Peter shook his head. 'Forgive me, Your Grace, but I thought the church was more than money.' The Bishop's eyes narrowed.

'You have one month, Father. The centre goes on the market in one month. You will then be reassigned to another area.'

Peter could barely contain his fury. He needed to get out before he said something he would regret. He stood. 'Was that all, Your Grace?'

The bishop eyed him. 'Yes, Father Clifford. You may go.'

Peter stormed out of the office and down the street. He was furious; the rage he felt threatened to overwhelm him. He threw a punch at nothing, an air swing. He got on the bus back to the centre, his mind swimming with rage and frustration.

_Sell the centre_. The one thing that was pulling the community together. The one thing that was helping to keep the boys off the street and out of trouble. He couldn't believe it. He fumed all the way to the church.

He marched down the hall to the sacristy door, where he stopped. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

'Come in.'

Peter stormed into the sacristy. Sam turned to look at him, his face resigned. He nodded.

'You don't seem surprised, Sam,' Peter said, angrily. Sam breathed a heavy sigh and shook his head.

'They're selling the centre,' he stated, clearly not needing Peter's confirmation. Peter paced up and down the small sacristy, struggling to contain his anger.

'How can they do this? This is the kind of area that needs a community centre the most! They can't close it down!' He threw his hands in the air, at stared at the ceiling.

_Why?_

Sam stood up and placed a hand on Peter's shoulder. 'I'm sorry, Peter.'

He was sorry; sorry for the community, yes, but equally as sorry for Peter. He'd watched the young curate in his first few days in Manchester; he'd been all over the place, clearly preoccupied. His heart wasn't here, Sam knew. But he'd watched as Peter had dived in head-first, taking every opportunity he could get to build the centre, get more people in the door. His hard work had paid off; the centre was bustling most days, and Sam knew Peter cared for that futsal team of his like they were his own. But Sam knew the little town of Ballykissangel – and the town's publican – had never really left his heart; he'd really only made room for Manchester. And now that was being ripped away as well…

Sam wondered if the young priest would survive.

Interrupting his thoughts, Peter turned to face his mentor, his expression still one of fury, but one now tinged with cynicism. 'You know what the worst thing was? I wasn't really that surprised.'

Peter stormed down the street to the centre, the fury he felt not subsiding.

_Why? I was just starting to sort my life out!_

He unlocked the doors and pushed them roughly open, storming into his office.

_I had a purpose! And you've ruined it!_

He threw his keys down on the desk.

_These boys need someone!_

Peter turned and punched the wall of his office. The pain shot up his arm and he automatically released the fist he'd made. He knew he'd done damage, but he didn't care.

_Why are you punishing me again? Surely I've paid enough of a price…_

He sat down on the edge of his desk, cradling his now-throbbing hand. The anger receded, only to be replaced with grief.

_I gave up everything…_

He felt hot tears well up behind his eyes. He wiped them away angrily. He couldn't do this. He couldn't lose Manchester as well. He'd opened his heart again, allowed the centre and its visitors a place there, only to have them ripped out again. He clenched his jaw.

The Bishop wasn't going to win, he decided. The centre would stay open. He would win this fight.

Mark looked at his watch; it was 10pm. Peter wasn't usually this late – he usually at least rang to say he'd be late – and Mark was beginning to worry. He picked up the phone and called Sam's house. Peter had left the number with Mark in case of an emergency, and Mark felt this was urgent enough.

'Hello?'

'Father Johns? It's Mark here, Peter's brother.'

The surprise was evident in Sam's voice. 'Mark? What can I do for you?'

'I'm sorry to ring so late, but I was wondering if you'd heard from Peter.' Mark heard the Priest sigh. 'What happened, Father?'

'Peter…well, he received some bad news today, and I'm afraid he hasn't taken it well.' Mark's heart dropped.

'What happened?'

'They're closing the community centre.' Mark closed his eyes. Just when Peter seemed to finally be pulling himself out of it…

The priest agreed to check the community centre, while Mark decided to head in the direction of the community centre, just in case Peter had stopped somewhere along the way. Mark headed down the street, zipping his jacket up tightly. It was autumn, and cold, and Peter's jacket was hanging next to the door at home.

Mark prayed.

Assumpta sighed as she started gathering the dirty glasses around the bar. Her foot twinged a little; despite being almost completely healed, the nerves were still quite raw, and at times, if she landed badly they reminded her. She walked gingerly around the bar, trying to use it for support without Brendan or Niamh seeing.

'Sit down, you!' Niamh commanded. Assumpta should have known better; Niamh had been watching her like a hawk since she'd returned. She suspected she was getting more attention than Ambrose and Kieran, a fact for which she was not glad.

'I'm fine, Niamh.'

'Sure you are. Look at you.'

'I just landed badly.'

'Sure you did.'

Assumpta ignored her and continued collecting the glasses. Brendan weighed in.

'Assumpta, you're not helping yourself.'

Assumpta sighed, exasperated. 'Ah, not you too!'

'Yes, me too, now sit down!' He commanded, blocking her way. She growled furiously, but turned and sat on one of the stools.

'I'm not a child,' she grumbled, shooting the two of them a look.

'Then stop acting like one,' Niamh shot straight back. Assumpta returned the look.

'Brendan, you need to go home,' she said, trying a different tack. Brendan just looked at her, completely unconvinced. 'You've got school tomorrow.'

'I know that. It'll be done soon,' he said, throwing the tea towel at her. 'You can dry.'

'Why, thank you.'

The assembly line of Niamh washing, Assumpta drying and Brendan packing away worked well, and the bar was tidy within an hour.

'Now, go home, Brendan! I can do the rest!' Assumpta declared. He looked at her, but gave in.

'All right, I know when I'm not wanted,' he declared, feigning indignance. Assumpta grinned as she pushed him out the door.

'Brendan!' she called as he turned to walk home. 'Thanks,' she said, grudgingly, admitting more than she could say.

'I know,' he said in mock arrogance. She threw the towel at him, which he caught and threw straight back. His face grew serious. 'It's good to have you back,' he said. Assumpta frowned, and nodded.

'Thanks.'

'Really. We thought…' He paused. 'We're all glad you're back.' She half-smiled at him, and he turned and headed down the street.

Assumpta walked carefully back inside the now almost spotless pub. Niamh had put all the chairs up bar two, and was pouring a glass of wine.

'What's this?' Assumpta asked, mildly amused. Niamh acted as if she owned the place, which didn't really surprise Assumpta, but caused moments of amusement – and, at times, friction.

'Payment,' Niamh declared. 'Care to join me?'

'Don't mind if I do,' Assumpta replied. Niamh poured her half a glass. 'What's that then?' she asked, indignant at the size of the offering.

'You're still on medication,' Niamh countered.

'Ah, Niamh,' she started, but Niamh spoke over the top.

'You can drink to your heart's content when you're off them, ok?' She grinned wryly at Assumpta. 'You're as bad as Ambrose,' she joked. Assumpta made to mock-slap her on the arm, and she laughed.

'What did Brendan want?' she asked tentatively.

'Nothing. He was just saying goodbye.' Niamh eyed her. They hadn't really spoken since the hospital – they'd been too busy. Assumpta was getting better, and was less and less exhausted by the end of the day, but it was still a big task, and Niamh was still forcing her to sleep in the afternoon.

'The new priest seems nice,' Niamh said nonchalantly. Assumpta was immediately on her guard. She knew Niamh wanted to talk about Peter. Assumpta was desperately trying to forget him, and failing miserably. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about him. 'As priests go,' she added.

Assumpta grunted in reply.

'You should give him a chance,' she said carefully. Assumpta shot her a look.

'Niamh,' she said warningly.

'What? He does seem nice.'

'I'm not going to bar him, if that's what you mean.'

'Good,' Niamh replied, and Assumpta shot her a look. They sipped their wine in silence for a few moments.

'How are you feeling?' Niamh asked.

'Tired. These stupid tablets make me so tired,' she replied, rubbing her face.

'It's for the best.'

'Is it?' Assumpta wondered out loud, her mind drifting to Peter.

'Of course it is,' Niamh said warily, eyeing her friend. Assumpta merely grunted, her mind clearly elsewhere. 'Heard from Leo?' she asked quietly. Assumpta's head shot up at the sound of his name.

'No. Why should I?'

'Just wondering.' Assumpta had her suspicions about where this conversation was going, and she wasn't interested. She was too tired, and she knew she'd just end up snapping at Niamh and hurting her feelings.

'I'm off to bed, Niamh,' she said, hopping gingerly of her stool. 'Night.'

Niamh shook her head. Hell would freeze over the day Assumpta Fitzgerald opened up to anyone.


	19. Chapter 19

Sam walked up to the doors of the community centre. They were locked. He sighed; he was rather hoping Peter would just be sitting in his office, not wanting to talk, and not realising the time.

'Sam,' a voice said in the darkness, and Sam jumped two feet in the air. He looked down to where the voice had come from – there, sitting on the corner of the stairs in the shadows, was Peter.

'Peter!' he said, then sighed as he sat down next to the young curate. Peter didn't say anything. 'Your brother rang. He was worried. It's ten o'clock, Peter.'

'Yeah. Sorry. Just didn't feel like talking.' Sam glanced over at Peter, noticing his now very swollen hand.

'Had an altercation with a wall?' he guessed, pointing to the hand.

'It's fine.'

'No, it's not,' Sam countered.

'Doesn't matter anyway. Won't be keeping again,' he said bitterly. Sam shook his head, but said nothing. They sat in silence for a few moments, before Peter couldn't contain himself any longer.

'I was just starting to make a difference, Sam. Things were just starting to go right. People had started to trust us again, trust the church again. And now…' he trailed off. 'Now it's over.'

Sam didn't reply.

'How am I going to tell Michael? And Jack? And Brandon? And the other boys? I was just starting to make a difference,' he cried, running his good hand through his hair in despair. 'The Bishop said the local community doesn't support the church. Well, no wonder,' he spat. 'What has the church done for them, other than put restrictions on their faith? Show them that money is more important than people?'

Peter sighed and shook his head. 'I can't do this, Sam,' he whispered quietly. 'Not again. Not anymore.' Sam looked over at the tortured young priest. He put his hand on his shoulder.

'No one is saying you have to, Peter.'

'I made a deal, Sam,' Peter said bitterly.

'The church isn't the only organisation working for the glory of God, Peter.'

Peter turned to look at Sam, surprised. He knew what Sam meant – it was the same thing the Bishop O'Connell had alluded to – but…really?

Sam stood up. 'Now, let's get that hand seen to, shall we?'

* * *

Mark sighed as he watched Peter get out of the Sam's car, his right hand and wrist bandaged.

'Amateur fighting?' he commented, as they both waved Sam off.

'Mark, I'm sorry,' Peter said as he reached the stairs. 'I should've phoned.'

'It's fine. Why the bandage?'

Peter grimaced. 'Broken, they think.' Mark's eyes widened.

'What did you do? Punch a wall?' Mark asked. Peter looked away. 'Oh, Peter.'

'It'll be fine. Not much use now, anyway,' he said, the bitterness still evident in his voice.

'You and your temper,' Mark said, shaking his hand. Peter sat down on the stairs with Mark. 'What are you going do to?' Mark asked quietly.

'I'm not sure. I have a month.'

Mark pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. 'Sam mentioned it, and it got me thinking. I have an old school friend who runs a community centre in Liverpool. He might be of interest to you.'

Peter frowned, and took the piece of paper. 'Why?'

Mark smiled knowingly. 'Trust me.'

* * *

Peter looked at his watch as the train made its way through the outskirts of Liverpool. Only another few minutes. He'd rung and spoken to Mark's friend, Andrew, who'd arranged to pick him up and take him to the centre. Peter had been honest – he told Andrew that Mark had told him to ring, and he wasn't sure why. Andrew had laughed, and said he thought he knew, but hadn't revealed anything further.

Peter rubbed his hand. It was still sore, but the hospital had given him some painkillers to dull the worst of the pain. He was annoyed with himself for it, but he was still angry. Angry with the church; the church that had let him down. Again.

He stood up as the train approached the station, and walked out onto the platform, looking around for the red jumper Andrew said he'd be wearing. Peter had elected to wear jeans and a jumper instead of his usual attire; he suspected it was out of some rebellion deep down, but told himself he would just blend in better.

He eventually spotted Andrew's red jumper, and walked over to introduce himself.

'Andrew?' he asked tentatively. Andrew smiled.

'You must be Peter. You look like your brother,' Andrew laughed. Peter nodded.

'I know, poor man,' he joked.

They headed off the platform and up onto the street, where Andrew's car was parked. Andrew politely asked how the journey was, and they made small talk for a few minutes, before Peter couldn't wait any longer.

'I have to ask – why did Mark want me to come here?' Andrew smiled.

'You'll see,' he said. Peter shook his head and smiled wryly. Trust Mark, he thought.

After a few minutes, they pulled up outside a large hall, the community centre name emblazoned on the front of the building.

'We're here,' Andrew announced, and parked his car around the side of the building. Peter got out and looked around.

'You have advertising,' he commented, as he noted the large boards that adorned the side of the building, advertising mostly sports gear.

'Yes, it's part of the agreement with the board,' he said. Peter looked at him, frowning.

'Board?'

'Yup. Come inside and have a look.' Andrew motioned towards the front of the building. Peter followed him around. There were kids everywhere, sitting in groups, throwing balls, generally running around. Peter looked around in amazement. It made his centre look like a graveyard. He noticed most of the equipment they were using didn't seem too old; some of the hockey sticks the boys were playing with in the car park looked almost new.

They walked into the brightly coloured hall. On one side there was a futsal match in full swing; on another, girls were practicing some kind of dancing. Several boys were playing handball against one of the walls, much to the girls' disgust when the ball interrupted their dancing. Peter was amazed.

'Wow,' he said, impressed.

'It's great, isn't it?' Andrew said, surveying his centre.

'This place isn't owned by the church, though, is it?' Peter asked.

'Used to be,' Andrew replied. 'Until they decided to sell it.'

A bright light flicked on in Peter's head as he realised why he was here. 'You were a priest?' he asked.

Andrew nodded, grinning at Peter's reaction. 'I guess our stories are somewhat similar. I ended up here, running the centre, killing myself to make it work, when all of a sudden the rug was pulled out from under me. It was the final straw for me,' he admitted, 'but everyone is different. I sought out community help, and the local council pledged their support. We were eventually able to buy the centre.'

Peter stared at Andrew in amazement. This was the solution. This was how it was going to work. He stared around at the advertising on the walls, most of it for sporting gear or local fast-food restaurants. He watched the children as they played happily.

_This is it._

Andrew pulled him aside. 'Peter, I know you're in a similar position, but you have to understand – this wasn't easy. It looks great now, but there was a lot of pain and heartache on the journey to this point. You have to find financial backers, and you have to have the community behind you and willing to stand up with you. And the local council. If you do choose this route, you'll be sacrificing a lot more than you imagine, with no guarantee of success.'

Peter looked at him and nodded.

_Sacrifice._

He seemed to sacrifice a lot for the things he loved.

'I understand.'

'It costs a lot to run these places, and a lot to insure them,' Andrew warned. 'And I'm not earning a bucketload,' he said. 'You'll need some clear and committed financial backers.'

Peter smiled. 'I have just the man.'

* * *

Assumpta leant against the back of the bar, drying off a glass, as she watched the regulars sip their beers. Things were slowly getting back to normal. People had slowly stopped coddling her, and she could almost walk perfectly now. The hospital had warned her that the nerve damage may be permanent – the burn on her foot was the worst – but she hoped it would eventually disappear with time.

No one had broached the topic of Peter yet. At least, not in her hearing range. None of them were game enough, she assumed. She was glad of that; she didn't know if she could hold her temper. She knew her fuse was short; even shorter than usual. It was the only thing protecting her at the moment – the walls of her emotions were just too thin. She would have to be careful, she knew. She just wasn't sure if she could.

She looked up as the door to the pub opened. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of the new priest, dog-collar and all. She felt her face – and her heart – harden.

The regulars all greeted the newcomer as he took a seat near Siobhan at the bar.

'Enjoying Ballyk, Father?' Siobhan asked.

'Yes, it's a beautiful place,' he replied. 'Makes a nice change from the concrete of the city.'

'I'm sure,' Assumpta said quietly. Alex looked at Assumpta.

'Where were you before?' Brendan asked loudly, eyeing off Assumpta who returned the look. None of this went unnoticed by Alex.

'I was in Manchester for a while, and then London,' he replied carefully. 'But I asked to be moved to somewhere smaller,' he said.

'Problems in the big city?' Assumpta asked, acerbically. Alex frowned.

'No, just wanted a change. I've never lived out of the city,' he replied. Assumpta put her glass down.

'Well, don't get comfortable. Priests don't last long around here,' she said acidly.

Niamh shot a panicked look at Brendan, who stepped in behind the bar, and in front of Assumpta.

'Can I get you a drink, Father?'

Assumpta turned and walked down the bar into the kitchen. Niamh quietly followed, shutting the door, blocking out the sounds of Padraig and Siobhan trying to rescue the situation.

'What was that for?' Niamh asked. Assumpta didn't look up.

'What? It's the truth, isn't it?' she asked, with slightly less venom in her voice.

'Assumpta,' Niamh started.

'What? What do you want, Niamh?' she asked, throwing her hands up in the air.

'It's not fair to take it out on him,' she said.

'He's the church, Niamh, or had you forgotten?' Assumpta replied bitingly.

'That's not fair and you know it,' Niamh said. 'You're not the only one who's hurting!' she cried before turning and storming out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. Assumpta leant against the bench, her anger turning in on itself.

She had to forget Peter Clifford before it destroyed her.

* * *

_Any and all feedback greatly appreciated._


	20. Chapter 20

Sam walked up the stairs and into the centre, where Peter was just saying goodbye to the boys.

'Training go well?' he asked. Peter nodded.

'Turns out Brandon is a keeper as well,' he replied, waving his still-bandaged hand in the air.

'Ah, good.'

'I forgot to thank you for taking training the other day,' he replied, before sucking down some water from a bottle.

'No problem. They were excellent.' Sam looked at Peter. He looked almost…happy. Happier than he'd seen him, at least, which probably wasn't saying much. 'What's going on, Peter?' the older man asked.

'I think I've got a solution,' Peter replied cautiously. Sam eyed him.

'What do you mean?'

Peter explained the situation at the Liverpool Centre to Sam, who listened quietly. He explained everything that Andrew had told him about how the financial side of things worked, and how he'd managed to get funding from the local government, and how the community had supported him.

'Well, that definitely sounds like something to start on,' Sam replied. 'But Peter, please – don't get your hopes up too high. Your friend is right – there are a lot of things that could go wrong.'

Peter nodded. He'd spent most of the last couple of days thinking about the situation; the more he thought about it, the more problems jumped out at him. The more the mountain seemed to grow.

Peter sat down on the steps next to Sam. 'I'm just not sure that the community cares enough about the centre,' he admitted. 'You should have seen the Liverpool Centre. It was teeming with kids! Our centre…?' he trailed off. Sam nodded.

'It's only been a few months, Peter.'

'And I've only got a month.' Peter sighed. This was going to be impossible, let alone what would happen to him if he didn't pull it off.

That was the other huge decision he needed to make.

'Sam, Andrew used to be a priest.' Sam nodded, not looking at him. Peter sat in silence, running his good hand through his hair. This was it. The biggest obstacle; not only physically, but emotionally. He'd been so ready to leave the church only a few months earlier, but now…

'I suppose you need to consider what's most important to you, Peter,' Sam said quietly. Peter closed his eyes. He didn't know what he wanted.

That wasn't true. He knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted what he couldn't have.

'What was it you told Jack? To follow your heart, because it usually knows best?'

Peter snorted. 'I tried that once.'

'Does that mean you shouldn't do it again? You of all people, Peter, know better than that.'

Peter stared out into the street.

_What should I do? _

He felt like his heart was being ripped into pieces. A piece for the church, a piece for the centre. A piece still lay in Ballyk - a piece still attached to her. A piece he was so desperately trying to get back, but knew he never would.

_Please. Tell me what to do. I need Your help._

'I don't know what I want,' he finally admitted painfully. Sam gave a small smile.

'Oh, I don't think that's true, Peter.' Peter looked at him. 'The church is not the only way to devote one's life to God.'

* * *

Assumpta sat on the cold, wet rock, the cold autumn breeze blowing her hair around her face.

She knew she'd been too hard on the new priest, but she didn't care. She was angry.

Angry with him, yes, for disappearing. For deserting her. For leaving her with so many questions and so few answers. Angry that he'd hurt her friends.

But more than that, she was angry with herself. Angry that she still expected him to walk through the door at any moment, his eyes always going straight to hers. Angry that she had to remind herself that he wasn't up in the church, hearing confession and giving mass. Angry that she couldn't shake him from her mind; that she couldn't stop him from invading her dreams.

Angry that, despite all the effort she put into hating him, she still loved him.

* * *

The front steps of Mark's house was fast becoming his favourite place to think. There, and the steps of the community centre. Tonight, Peter sat on the steps of Mark's house, sipping his beer, trying to sort everything out in his mind.

He knew what he had to do, but he was terrified. Terrified that it wasn't the right decision. Terrified that the whole plan would come to nothing. Terrified of what it meant.

He would no longer be a priest.

He stared out at the quiet, empty street; something he seemed to do a lot of. He craved the quiet, but raged against it. Quiet meant he could think – something he so desperately needed to do – but his thoughts always drifted to her. To her beautiful face. To the looks she'd given him in the first few months, defiantly challenging him to break her long-held perception of Catholic priests. To the look she'd given him when he realised she hadn't signed the petition to keep him in Ballyk, but that she'd organised it. To the small – but, to him, brilliant - smiles she gave him whenever he walked into the bar. To the shy look she'd given him when he'd poured his heart out to her on the side of the lake, only a few short months ago. To the big smile she'd caved in and given him that night, before the lights went out. To her cold, lifeless face on the hard concrete floor of the basement of Fitzgerald's. To her soft, white face in the back of the ambulance when God had honoured his request and his life changed forever. Before his heart was broken.

He was trying desperately to forget her, but his heart wouldn't let him.

_How long?_

_How long before you'll let me go?_

His decision months ago to leave the priesthood had been hard, but easy. Hard to get to – hard to finally admit to himself that he and the Catholic Church had different priorities. The disillusionment had become the bitter pill he'd been swallowing for many months, even years. That had been obvious to him – and others, he knew – for a long time. Hard to realise he'd failed, in some ways – he'd failed as a Catholic Priest. He'd decided a year earlier to be the best priest he could be – breaking Assumpta's heart at the same time, he remembered painfully – but he'd failed, under the watchful eye of both Assumpta, and Father Mac.

He thought back to his conversation with Father Mac about Assumpta. He realised suddenly why Father Mac had become so angry when he'd revealed why he was leaving – in his mind, Assumpta had won. And that was something Father Mac couldn't stomach, no matter what the circumstances. Father Mac's anger had been the final catalyst for his decision; he'd rushed straight down to Fitzgerald's after that.

But now…now, everything was different. There was more at stake than just his vocation. There was her life. The agreement he'd made. The agreement that Sam kept hinting was maybe slightly less binding than Peter had assumed.

Maybe he was hiding behind the church. Well, if he was, the decision he was about to make was about to move him out into the light.

He turned his head as he heard the rough footsteps of his brother on the cement steps.

'Care for company?'

'Sure.'

'How's the hand?'

'Sore.'

Mark sighed as he sat down next to Peter. 'Nothing is ever simple with you, is it?'

Peter snorted. His motto for life. 'Nope.' Peter took a sip of his beer. 'Thank you for giving me Andrew's name.'

'Do you think it might work?'

'Maybe.' Peter sighed. 'There are a lot of maybes. The more I think about it, the more impossible it seems.'

'Yes, I suppose. But at least you know it can be done.'

Peter nodded. 'It'll depend on the community; whether or not they're interested enough in keeping it going.' Mark nodded.

'Maybe.'

'And it depends on the money. We need considerable backing. There would be a lot of overheads, a lot of which would be covered by sponsorship and advertising, but not all of it.' Mark nodded again.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

'What will you do?' Mark asked. Peter looked at him, confused. 'Andrew had to leave. The church wouldn't let him stay and run the place if it didn't belong to the church anymore.'

Peter sighed. He knew the church would have issue with him working at the centre, but that had confirmed it. Bishop Morris was never going to let him stay.

'I don't know, Mark.'

'What do you want to do?' Peter snorted humourlessly.

'That's the million dollar question, isn't it? What do I want…' he trailed off.

'You don't have to stay with the Church, Peter. Even if the centre doesn't work out, there are plenty of other Christian organisations you could work for.' Peter smiled grimly and shook his head.

'That's what Sam said.'

'Smart guy.'

'Yeah.'

'I guess you have to decide what's most important to you. What you want.'

Peter closed his eyes. He couldn't have what he wanted. He would just have to settle for the next best thing.

* * *

Peter walked out of his office to see the boys already standing in the hall. He stopped. They were standing in a semi-circle, their arms crossed.

'This looks like a mutiny,' he joked tensely.

'You lied to us,' Michael said accusingly. Peter raised his eyebrows.

'What?'

'You lied. You said we'd be a team. That we could play in competitions.'

'Yes…' Peter frowned.

'You didn't tell us the centre was closing,' Jack added, the hurt in his voice only thinly covered by a tone of resentment. Peter sighed heavily.

'You're right. I'm sorry I haven't told you sooner. I only had the meeting a few days ago,' he said, his voice heavy. 'I didn't know how to tell you all.'

Michael's eyes narrowed. 'Why are they closing it? It's cause of money, isn't it?'

Peter nodded reluctantly. 'Yeah, it is. It's not my decision.' He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. 'I'm sorry, boys. I really am.'

'So what are you going to do about it?' Michael asked. Peter looked at him.

'What do you mean?'

'You have to fight! You can't give up so easily. Unless you don't want to fight…' he trailed off.

'No. I tried fighting,' Peter said sternly. 'I care about this place, and I care about this community, and I care about you,' he said, pointing to the group of boys.

'So what are you going to do?' Michael challenged. Peter dropped his shoulders.

'The Catholic Church isn't a democracy, Michael. There isn't much I can do that I haven't already done.' Michael clenched his jaw.

'Then we'll fight.' Peter eyed him, surprised at the tone of finality in the boy's voice. 'The centre kinda belongs to us too, right?' Peter nodded. 'Then we can fight.'

'What does that entail, exactly?' he asked warily.

'We'll go see the Bishop. He has to listen to us.' Peter smiled at his enthusiasm.

'Yeah, you could. But I have another idea. And I'll need everyone's help.'

* * *

_Ok, so I lied - we're about halfway now, I think. Sorry! I just keep getting ideas..._

_As always, any and all feedback very much appreciated._


	21. Chapter 21

Peter let out a long breath, trying to calm his nerves, as he watched the black Mercedes roll down the street towards them. His stomach was doing somersaults; he was afraid he'd lose what little lunch he had managed to force down.

_This is it. If this doesn't work…_

_Well, You have to make it work._

Sam stood next to him, hands in his pockets. 'I don't know how you stay so calm,' Peter commented.

'Calm?' Sam laughed quietly. 'I think the butterflies in my stomach are having a rave party.'

Peter looked into the hall. There were kids everywhere: girls sitting in a circle talking and laughing, a couple of boys practicing some kind of martial art, a large group of kids practicing some kind of performance in another corner. There was even a few random kids reading around the room. He smiled to himself. The boys had certainly kept their side of the agreement – to bring as many of the local kids as they could to fill the hall. Peter recognised a number of faces, but there were many new ones. When Michael had turned up with nearly 70 kids, Peter asked how he'd managed to get so many. Michael would only say he'd called in a few favours, and spread the word. Peter had not asked any further; he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

He looked over at the large group of boys kicking the football around the hall. Michael looked over and gave him a thumbs-up, which Peter returned.

_This is it. _

Peter smiled and stuck out his hand as William Jones walked up the stairs. 'Mr Jones. William. Thanks for coming.'

Jones shook his hand. 'Father,' he said, shaking Sam's hand as well. 'What can I do you for? I must admit, I was a little intrigued by your phone call.'

'Come inside. Can I get you some tea?' Peter asked innocently.

'Sure, thanks,' Jones replied, surveying the almost full hall, surprise clear on his face. 'You've become quite a hit, Father,' he said.

'Oh, them? That's just a few. It can get quite packed in here of an afternoon,' he replied nonchalantly. Sam turned his head to cover the grin he couldn't help spreading across his face. William just nodded.

'I've been thinking about your offer,' Peter said carefully. 'And I think I've got a better one.' William looked at him, surprised. Peter couldn't help but smile. 'How would you really like to give back to the community, William?'

William Jones sat down on the chair. 'Wow, Father. That's one heck of a proposal,' he said carefully, as Peter handed him a cup of tea.

'I know it's big, but we're in big trouble,' Peter replied. 'Think of the good you could do. Think of the all those kids,' Peter pleaded. 'They have nowhere else to go.' Sam chuckled to himself under his breath. Peter was working Jones, and working him well.

Jones looked up at Peter, his face slightly pained. 'Well, I'm sure Morris would be happy…and I do have a couple of friends in the local government, but it's a big investment…' he trailed off, obviously crunching the numbers in his head.

'You could put advertising wherever you wanted, as long as it was clean. We'd apply for sponsorships from sporting companies to provide the equipment, and we'd form a board to oversee the running of the centre. It's worked before – it's working right now over in Liverpool.'

Jones looked serious.

'Think of the publicity,' Peter said, playing his final trump card. It had worked before on a similar man, and Peter bet Jones was cut from exactly the same mould. ''Local businessman saves community centre' sounds like a pretty good headline, doesn't it?'

William looked up at him, his face hard.

'You'd run it?'

'Yes.'

'Same salary as the church is paying you now?'

'Sure.'

William sat in thought for a few moments, and looked over at Sam. 'What's your part in all of this?'

Sam smiled. 'I'm the local priest. I care about what happens here,' he said innocently. Jones narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. He looked over at Peter, his face softening slightly.

'You couldn't work for both of us,' he declared. 'You know you'd have to give up the priesthood.' Peter stood up.

'Yes.' William watched the young curate carefully. 'I know. It's a risk I'm willing to take,' he said gravely. William eyed him.

'Well, I can't fault your dedication.' He looked up. 'No promises. But I'll ask some questions, put out some feelers. See what comes back.'

Peter felt like jumping for joy, but settled for a wide grin. 'Thank you, Mr Jones.'

'William.'

'William.' Jones stood up, and turned to leave.

'No promises.'

'No promises. Uh, the centre goes on sale in three weeks.'

William's eyes widened. 'Geez, you like to cut it fine, don't you?'

Peter grimaced. 'Not my call.'

'Ah, I know.' Jones turned to leave. 'You'd better start rallying the local community. If this is going to work, you're going to need all the support you can get.'

Peter nodded. That was going to be the toughest part.

* * *

Alex walked down the main street of Ballyk. The air was cool and fresh, something Alex savoured; the air in Manchester couldn't compare. He wondered, not for the first time, why anyone would willingly leave Ballykissangel…especially a priest. He wasn't stupid; obviously something had happened, but the people of Ballyk were typical small-town folk – not interested in talking to strangers.

He spotted Niamh in the distance, coming out of the Garda's house, pushing Kieran in his pram. He walked quickly to catch up to her.

'Niamh!' Niamh looked up to see Alex walking towards her. She smiled at him.

'Father. Can I do something for you?' she asked, pulling the pram around.

'Well, actually, there is.' He paused and took a breath. 'I know I'm only new here, but I can't help but feel…awkward,' he started. Niamh looked down at the pram and began to walk down the street, Alex following beside. She knew what he was asking, and she didn't know what to say. 'I couldn't help but notice that Ms Fitzgerald…doesn't seem like the church much,' he said carefully. Niamh smiled.

'No, she doesn't.'

'I hope it's not something I've done.' Niamh laughed humourlessly.

'Oh, no, Father. Don't worry yourself about that. She's a long-time devotee.'

'Ah.' They continued in silence.

'I also noticed that there's a little tension around the previous priest,' he added, studying Niamh for her reaction. Her face tightened, and the smile dropped. 'I wondered if there was anything I could do to help.'

Niamh shook her head quickly. 'No, Father, I doubt there is.'

'I don't want to pry, Niamh, but can I ask what happened?' Niamh looked at him, her eyes wide with sadness. 'I just want to help,' Alex added carefully.

Niamh looked down the road. 'He left without saying goodbye.' Alex studied her.

'He was close with the community?' Niamh glanced at him quickly, before diverting her attention back to the road ahead.

'Yes, he was.'

'I'm sorry,' Alex said.

'Don't be, Father. It's not your fault. Anyway, he's not coming back,' she said with a sense of finality tinged with sadness.

'I'm sure he had his reasons,' Alex said gently, trying to defend a man he didn't even know. He realised he didn't even know his name.

'I'm sure he did,' Niamh said roughly.

'What can I do, Niamh? I want to help, but I feel like I'm being shut out. I don't expect people to trust me straight away,' he added quickly. 'But…'

Niamh smiled. 'It's been a rough few months, Father, with Assumpta's accident and Peter leaving…' she trailed off. 'Just give it time. Don't give up.'

Alex nodded. 'I don't intend to.'

* * *

Niamh walked into Fitzgerald's to see Assumpta trying to lift a box into the kitchen.

'Assumpta! What do you think you're doing? You know you can't do that!' she cried, racing around the take the box off her. Assumpta willingly gave it up and threw her hands in the air.

'I'm not an invalid, Niamh!' she cried.

'You will be if you don't stop this,' Niamh retorted. Assumpta grunted and stalked into the kitchen, breathless. She leant against the counter, trying to get her breath back.

'Assumpta, please. It's just a few more weeks.'

'I'm sick of this, Niamh. I can't even run my own pub!' she yelled.

'We know, Assumpta.'

'I can't drive, I can't unpack boxes, I can't do anything!' she yelled, throwing the towel she'd been holding into the sink.

'Assumpta!' Niamh shouted. Assumpta turned to look at her. 'Calm down. You're acting like Kieran,' she chided. Assumpta slumped into one of the chairs, defeated.

'I just feel so…angry,' she admitted.

'We know.' Assumpta looked up at Niamh. 'You haven't exactly been hiding it. The poor priest is wondering what he did wrong.'

Assumpta's head shot up. 'I don't care about the priest.'

'That's not his fault!' Assumpta sighed, still frustrated. 'You have to calm down, Assumpta. You're spinning out, and the whole town is your audience.'

Assumpta put her head on the table. 'I think I'm losing my mind.'

Niamh sat down next to her, putting a hand on her back. 'I know.'

* * *

Peter studied the paper in front of him. Only 120 names and signatures. He sighed. It had been great to see so many people come to the centre to sign the sheet – he'd met so many parents who seemed pleased with what he was doing – but he knew he was going to need a lot more than that to convince Jones and the Council to invest in the centre. It was only twenty-four hours before he had to have the signatures at the local councillor's desk.

He shook his head. This was never going to work.

Peter walked into the large church building and sat on one of the pews at the front. He knew what he had to do – he couldn't serve two masters – but something was still holding him back.

'Am I doing the right thing?' he asked quietly. 'I know I made a deal, but maybe Sam's right. Maybe I can devote my life to You without being in the church. But I guess it's Your call,' he sighed. He looked up at the beautiful stained-glass windows at the back of the church, the sun streaming through them and painting a pattern on the floor. 'It's all in Your hands. If You want this centre to stay open, You have to do it,' he said. He put his head in his hands.

_I don't think I can do this._

_I'm trusting You. Don't let me down, please._

The pew beside him creaked, and he looked up to see Sam. 'Hi.'

'Hi.'

They sat in silence for a while.

'Peter, talk to me.' Sam looked at the young curate. The bags under his eyes were a permanent feature. He was still losing weight; Sam had noticed his robes had practically hung off him when he'd taken Mass earlier in the week.

'I don't know what to do, Sam.'

'What do you want to do?' Sam asked quietly.

'It's not that simple. I can't have what I want, Sam,' Peter replied, frustrated.

'Really?' Peter turned to look at him, a gaze Sam returned intently. 'Let me tell you a story. A young boy was standing in a shop, unable to decide what to do. He had several options before him, but he was afraid. What happened if he was rejected by the girl he liked?' Peter sighed, knowing this story all too well. 'He stood there, struggling, till a friend came along. The friend enquired about his problem, and the boy explained his situation. The friend gave the young boy some excellent advice, advice the young boy followed. Do you remember that advice, Peter?'

Peter smiled humourlessly. 'Follow your heart. It usually knows what to do,' he repeated. Sam nodded.

'If it's good enough for Jack, then why isn't it good enough for you?'

'But I made a deal, Sam. I can't – I won't – dishonour that.' Sam nodded.

'No one is asking you to, Peter.' Peter sighed. 'But the church is not an escape route, Peter. It is not a place to hide, even from yourself. Especially not yourself.'

Peter looked over at the grey-haired priest. He knew Sam was right; he was using the church to hide, and not just from his past. He was trying to hide from himself.

His discussion with Bishop O'Connell played in his mind. _You don't necessarily need the church to devote your life to God, Father._

Peter rubbed his face with his good hand. He had already made the decision, he knew. He just needed the strength to walk it through.

'I want to run the community centre,' he declared. Sam nodded.

'Then you know what to do, Peter.'

* * *

_Any and all feedback much appreciated. _


	22. Chapter 22

Peter stood at the steps of the community centre, waiting. It was 4pm, and the council shut at 5pm. The last bus left at 4:15pm. The boys had better hurry, he thought. He stood there, fidgeting. He looked down at the envelope he held in his hand – 200 signatures. He wondered vaguely if it would be enough. He knew it wouldn't be – there were a couple of thousand people living in a three mile radius of the centre. He needed more, but just he didn't have them.

He looked down at his watch, worried. The bus stop was still a five-minute walk away. Where were those boys?

He turned to see Sam walking up the street. 'Sam?' Sam smiled, holding a couple of sheets of paper.

'Most of the people I spoke to had already signed your list, but I did manage to get a few.' Peter looked at him in surprise.

'But I thought you weren't allowed to have petitions?'

Sam smiled. 'I was one friend asking another friend. The church had nothing to do with it,' he said innocently, and Peter laughed. He looked over the pages – two full pages meant another fifty signatures. He slipped them into the large envelope.

'How many have you got?' Sam asked.

'Not enough.'

'Hmm.'

Peter looked at his watch again. 4:05pm.

He turned when he heard a young boy yell. 'Father!' Michael and Jack were running up the street, waving sheets of paper.

'About time!' he said when the boys reached him.

'Sorry, we just had a couple left to get,' Jack said, breathless. 'We ran all the way here.'

'Clearly I'm not training you hard enough, am I?' Peter joked, and Jack rolled his eyes.

Michael handed him the sheets, and Peter's eyes widened. There were at least 20 pages.

'What…?' Peter asked, looking at the boys.

'We asked all around school, and all the teachers signed it. Even the Principal,' Jack said proudly.

'And all the shops near my house. The boys all took some sheets and got the people in their buildings to sign,' Michael added.

'And I did the hospital. The nurse who looked after me remembered you, and she got all the other nurses to sign, and some of the doctors too!' Jack said excitedly.

'And we asked at the local police station too,' Michael said, grinning slyly.

Peter's jaw swung open. He couldn't believe it. He looked through the pages – sure enough, every page was full of names and signatures. He felt tears begin to prick his eyes and he blinked rapidly, not wanting to cry in front of the boys.

His mind went back to the last petition he'd held in his hands. Assumpta had handed it to him; it had been the petition she'd organised to keep him in Ballyk. He'd been blindsided by the town's support. It had also been the first concrete sign she'd given of any kind of feeling she felt toward him. It had hit him hard. He'd just believed it was puppy love; he'd hoped it would go away with time and familiarity. But when he realised how she felt…it hadn't gone away.

'I don't believe it,' he said, looking at the boys, who were grinning excitedly.

'Well done, Father,' Sam said, slapping him on the back. 'Now, you'd better run for the bus.'

* * *

Peter raced inside the Council Office and up to the desk. It was 4:45pm.

'I'm here to see Councillor Bramson,' he said to the receptionist.

'Do you have an appointment?' she asked.

'Yes. Peter Clifford.' She scanned the computer and nodded.

'That's fine, I've got you here,' she said, giving him directions to the councillor's office on the fourth floor. Peter walked quickly down the corridor and into the elevator, praying he wasn't too late. He walked quickly up to the receptionist's desk.

'Hello. I have an appointment with Councillor Bramson. Peter Clifford.' The receptionist smiled and asked him to take a seat.

Peter sat down, trying not to fidget. His stomach was doing somersaults again, but he was on a high. Nearly eight hundred people had signed the petition. He still couldn't believe it. All his doubts about community support had gone out the window.

'You can go in now, Father,' the receptionist said. Peter thanked her and stood, opening the large brown door.

'Father,' a man walked around from behind a desk to greet him. 'It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you.' Peter frowned in surprise.

'You have?'

Councillor Bramson smiled. 'Of course. I like to keep a close eye on my electorate, Father.'

'Of course, sorry.' The Councillor smirked.

'Please, sit down. I believe you already know William Jones,' he said, as William stood and stuck out his hand for Peter to shake. Peter grinned at him and shook his hand.

'Mr Jones has been telling me about your idea, Father. It's ambitious,' he said. Peter nodded.

'I believe it's important, Councillor.' Bramson nodded.

'Call me Alan. I don't doubt, Father, but it's quite an expensive project. We're looking at tens of thousands of pounds each year,' he said gravely. Peter nodded.

'Yes. I've done some of the sums, Councillor – they were sent to your office a few days ago.' Bramson nodded.

'Yes, I saw. Impressive – have you studied accounting?' Bramson asked. Peter shook his head.

'No – I just got some help from a friend,' he said, smiling. Andrew had willingly sent him a template of their expenses and projected income, which Peter and Sam had worked long into the night tweaking.

'Father Clifford is passionate about this project, Alan,' William stated. 'And I think it's worth it.'

Peter looked at Jones in surprise. He hadn't expected Jones to be at the meeting, let alone supporting the project so openly.

Bramson nodded. 'I agree. I've had several emails from the Police Commissioner about the reduction in Youth Crime in the area, and your community service, Father.' Peter nodded dumbly. He had no idea anyone else had sent emails. He wondered vaguely who else had weighed in on the debate.

'Councillor, the young people in the area wanted to start a petition. I have their efforts here, if you'd like to see,' Peter said, passing the envelope to the Councillor, who opened it. His eyes widened when he realised how many signatures were on the many pages.

'I'm impressed, Father. Looks like you have some clear community support.' Peter nodded.

'Yes, it does,' he said, more to himself.

'What's the problem, Alan? You're stalling,' Jones said. Bramson frowned.

'This is the hard part. The church has put the centre out on a tender. We would have to apply for the site, and hope that our tender is the highest,' he said, his tone grave.

'Who else is applying?' Jones asked.

'Cole,' Bramson replied quietly, and Jones sighed.

'Sorry, Father. Looks like your centre is going to be turned into a carpark,' Jones said, his face hard.

'What? Who is Cole?'

'He's a businessman. Based mostly in London, but he owns Cole Parking, and he's already bought a few sites in Manchester this year. Word is he wants to buy your centre and turn it into a multi-storey carpark.'

Peter's heart dropped like a stone. 'What can we do about it?'

'Cole is a very wealthy man, and his business is flourishing. Whatever we could bid, he'd simply out-do it,' Jones said resignedly.

'I'm sorry, Father,' Bramson added. Peter frowned.

'We can't give up,' he said. 'We have to put in a tender.'

'It'd be a waste of time, Peter,' Jones said sternly. 'You wouldn't win.'

'The church has to choose, doesn't it?' Peter said. 'Surely we could apply some pressure – let the community know what's going to happen?' He felt desperate. They'd come so far – they couldn't lose now.

Bramson smiled, clearly amused at Peter's words. Peter realised he was still wearing his collar. He was still a priest of the Catholic Church, and here he was, trying to figure out a way to manipulate them. Oh well, he thought. I won't be a Priest for long.

Bramson looked at Jones, who looked back at Bramson. 'Your call,' Bramson said. 'I'm happy to push for it.'

'Of course you are, it's an election year,' Jones returned, and Bramson shook his head. 'Alright, I'm in. Your guilt-trip might just work. And nothing would make me happier than to see Cole lose something.'

Peter shook his head in amazement. _Uncanny_, he thought.

* * *

Peter raced in the door of the community centre, his spirits still high. He relished the fight before him. He knew it was going to be tough – Cole wasn't going to go down quietly – but if his ideas worked, they might just pull it off.

Jack and Michael wandered through the door of the centre, their gang of boys following them. The frowned when they saw Peter still in his Priest's clothing.

'Isn't training on?' Brandon asked.

'Not today, boys. I need your help again. We've got a bit of a fight ahead of us,' he said. The boys grinned.

'What did you have in mind?' Michael asked, a glint in his eye.

* * *

_Holidays means lots of writing and editing time. I am a considerable number of chapters ahead of this, but there's still some work to do to ensure it all ties in nicely at the end. :)_

_Any and all feedback is very appreciated._


	23. Chapter 23

Sam squinted as he walked towards the community centre. Were those…posters?

His suspicions were confirmed as he got closer to the centre.

'_SAVE OUR COMMUNITY CENTRE!_' adorned multiple brightly-coloured posters outside the front of the centre. Sam suddenly understood the irate phone call he'd received that morning.

He walked up the stairs, torn between amusement at the flurry of activity, and concern for his curate. Peter was in trouble, but he suspected the young priest wouldn't mind one bit.

He slipped carefully past a young boy holding a freshly painted poster, and stepped carefully around the group of teenagers painting in stencils. He spotted Peter handing out paper and instructions to a young girl.

'Peter,' Sam said, touching the curate on the shoulder. Peter looked up and smiled.

'Production line,' he said.

'Ah.' Peter had rung Sam right after his meeting with Bramson and Jones and had explained the whole story. Sam had urged him to be careful, but Peter had been sure this was the way to go. 'If the community wants the centre to stay open, then they might need to do a little more than sign a petition,' he'd said. Sam had agreed, but felt a little trepidatious. He was sure Peter was in for a fight, and wondered if Peter knew just how big the fight could get. He suspected he was about to find out.

'Peter, Morris wants to see you.' Peter looked at him and sighed.

'I've been waiting for that call,' Peter said. 'Why did he ring you?'

'You didn't answer your phone.'

'Oops,' Peter said, grimacing.

'I copped an earful.'

'I'm sorry.'

Sam grinned. 'It's ok. I don't think I've ever heard Bishop Morris so…emotional…before,' Sam chuckled. Peter grinned. 'You need to get down there asap. He wants to see you now,' Sam said. 'I'll supervise this.'

Peter nodded. 'Well, I suppose it was coming,' he sighed.

Sam nodded.

'Just promise me you'll stay calm, Peter.' Peter nodded.

'I will try.'

* * *

Peter pushed open the door of the office. The thought that his visits to this office were becoming increasingly negative flashed across his mind, but he pushed it away. Hopefully the Bishop would understand once he explained.

Peter knew he was kidding himself, but he had to stay positive. Somehow.

'Father Clifford. Please sit down.'

Peter sat down in the same chair he'd sat in during his previous two visits. Peter could see Bishop Morris was angry – his mouth was set in a hard line, and his face was slightly flushed.

'Your Grace.'

'Father, what are you doing?' Peter frowned, confused.

'I don't understand, Your Grace.' The Bishop sighed angrily.

'The community centre is being sold, Father.'

'Yes, Your Grace.'

'Then why are there posters all over Manchester with the words 'Save our community centre' scrawled all over them?' he asked, his voice rising throughout the sentence. Peter swallowed.

'The local council, along with several other investors are looking to buy the centre, Your Grace. They want to keep it functioning as a community centre.' Bishop Morris eyed him.

'And?'

'We had heard that there had already been an application put forward that proposed turning the centre into a carpark.'

Bishop Morris fumed. 'How would you know that?'

'Someone told me, Your Grace. The council and investors feel that the community needs a centre, Your Grace. The community is right behind this proposal,' Peter added, trying to keep his voice level.

The Bishop's jaw clenched. 'So you're trying to manipulate the church, are you, Father?'

Peter forced himself to remain impassive. 'Of course not, Your Grace. I'm merely supporting the community in a project they feel is important.' The Bishop's eyes narrowed.

'Father, you are to cease making these posters immediately.' Peter clenched his jaw, biting his tongue.

'Yes, Your Grace.'

'You are also to take down the posters already around the centre.' Peter felt the anger flare up inside of him.

'Why, Your Grace?'

Morris exploded. 'Because I will not have the public thinking they can manipulate the results of a multi-million dollar investment!'

Peter shook his head in disgust, but bit back his response. He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down.

'Forgive me, Your Grace, for thinking that the church was the community,' he said acidly.

'Father Clifford.' Peter couldn't hold back his fury.

'I'm sorry, Your Grace, but I cannot do what you ask.' The Bishop stared at him, his eyes narrow.

'You are only in this parish for short time, Father. Don't take the chance that your nest post could be somewhere…less desirable.'

Peter stood, his anger overwhelming him. 'Don't worry yourself, Your Grace. I won't be taking that chance.' The Bishop's face changed slightly, showing his confusion. 'I resign. I no longer wish to work for the Catholic Church.' Peter spat. 'I'll have the paperwork on your desk by the end of the day. I would appreciate it if you would expedite my release from my vows, and forward the relevant paperwork to Rome.'

He turned on his heel and headed for the door, stopping before he opened it. He turned back to the stunned Bishop. 'Do you want to know what the biggest obstacle is for Priests who want to live out their faith?' Peter smiled humourlessly. 'The Church.'

* * *

Peter stormed out of the Bishop's office and down the stairs, before stopping, the weight of the situation hitting him. He sat down on the wall around the corner from the building, running his good hand through his hair.

_I hope I've done the right thing because there's no going back now. It's all up to you._

Peter walked up the stairs and into the waiting area for the Bishop's office. His receptionist looked at him warily. 'I'll see if he's free,' she said, not waiting to ask. Peter said thank you and sat down, fiddling with the envelope in his hands. It hadn't taken him long to write the appropriate letters. The receptionist ushered him in quickly. He walked in and placed the envelope on the Bishop's desk.

'Father.'

'Your Grace. My letter of resignation, requesting my release from my vows.' Peter turned to leave.

'Father, why did you come to Manchester?' the Bishop asked. Peter turned, his face hard.

'Because I still believed in my vows, Your Grace.'

'Is that the only reason?'

Peter eyed the Bishop. 'Yes. I told Bishop O'Connell as much when I arrived.'

The Bishop eyed him back, clearly deciding against that route.

'You aren't going to win, Father.'

Peter smiled humourlessly. 'Oh, I think we might, Your Grace. But nothing is going to change my mind. My resignation is final, and is effective immediately. I'll return my robes to Father Johns this evening.'

'You can return your keys to the community centre to Father Johns as well,' the Bishop called after him. Peter stopped. He'd anticipated that. He turned to face the Bishop and smiled.

'Of course, Your Grace.'

* * *

'You did what?' Mark asked, nearly dropping his beer.

'And I told him that the church was an obstacle to faith.' Mark's jaw dropped open, and he laughed.

'I can't believe he mentioned Ireland,' Mark said sadly a few minutes later.

'Yeah,' Peter said, miles away. He hadn't really been surprised. If the Bishop had wanted to hit him hard, that would have been where to hit. Not that it mattered, really; Peter had already made his decision known by that point. Any mention of Ballykissangel – and whatever Father Mac had told him – was not going to have the desired effect.

'I would have hit him.'

'That's why you're not a priest, Mark.' Peter took a long gulp of his beer. 'You knew I was planning on leaving anyway.'

Mark let out a long breath. 'Wow.'

'Yeah.'

Mark eyed his little brother. 'I have to admit, Peter, I didn't think you would do it.'

Peter looked up at him. 'Neither did I. I'm kinda glad it happened the way it did. I think I probably would have lost my nerve, otherwise.'

'So, what now?' Mark asked.

'I guess I have to wait for the results of the tender,' Peter said ruefully. 'See if I've got a job.'

* * *

Assumpta wandered up the main street of Ballyk. She needed a walk to clear her head. It was early, and the pub wasn't due to open until eleven.

She had dreamt about him, again, and it had unnerved her. She had been home for nearly a month, and yet she still couldn't shake him, no matter how hard she tried to keep busy. Every time she closed her eyes, her heart betrayed her. His face haunted her dreams.

She knew in time she would forget him; he would just become a distant memory, and the ache in her foot would eventually fade. The redness of the new skin on her hand would eventually fade. She would get off this emotional rollercoaster. She would eventually let him go.

She wondered how long that would be...if ever.

She stopped in front of a small house with a red door. She stared; her feet had led her straight to his house, like they had done so many times before. The memories came flooding back, threatening to overwhelm her for what felt like the millionth time. The bitterness in his voice when she'd tried to explain her marriage to Leo; the way he'd saved the day by offering to hide her bootleg beer; the fight they'd had the night before the accident, when he'd kissed her neck…

She shook her head. She had to stop doing this.

The noise of a bell shook her out of her reverie. She turned to see Brendan sliding off his bike.

'Hiya,' he said. She turned away from the house, kicking at the ground.

'Hey.'

Brendan looked at the house, and back to her. 'He rang, you know.' Assumpta looked up in shock; it was like someone had punched her in the chest. She felt her heart begin pounding, despite her medication.

'What?'

'He rang me, about a week before you came home.' She stared at him, her mouth wide open. 'He wanted to know how you were.' Brendan watched her carefully, before he could no longer stand looking at her pain-filled eyes. He broke her gaze. 'I thought you might like to know.'

Assumpta nodded mutely and started stumbling down the road away from the house.

'Assumpta, I don't know why he left. I don't know what happened.' Assumpta blinked a few times and took a deep breath.

'No one seems to.'

'He does.' Assumpta looked up at him, her ears ringing. Brendan stared back at her, his eyes challenging her to be stronger than she was. She refused to consider what he was asking. She refused to even allow her brain to process that thought.

'Let's get you back,' he said finally, putting his hand on her back and gently pulling her down the hill. She followed him mutely.

He'd rung. To check up on her.

'Brendan.' She stopped. 'Why did he ring _you_?' Brendan sighed and frowned.

'I don't know.'

'Yes, you do,' she said accusingly. 'Why did he ring _you_? He could have rung the hospital.'

'I don't think he wanted to take the chance that the hospital would tell you he'd rung.' She struggled to process the information. He'd rung Brendan. He trusted Brendan to tell him the truth. He didn't trust the hospital…

'Leo.'

Brendan sighed. 'Yeah, that too, I think.'

Her shock subsided into anger. He could ring Brendan, but he couldn't ring her. He could disappear without a trace – abandoning the woman he claimed to love – but could ring Brendan. She clenched her jaw.

'I suppose he's doing fine.'

'He sounded terrible, actually.' She turned on her heel to face him.

'I don't want you talking to him about me again.'

'Assumpta-'

'I'm serious, Brendan!' she cried. 'Not another word. I don't care what happens,' she said fiercely. Brendan looked at her, his eyes sad, but nodded.

Assumpta turned and stormed into the pub, racing upstairs and throwing herself on her bed. The tears flowed freely, and she didn't try to stop them.

* * *

Niamh turned as the door slammed open and Assumpta stormed up the stairs. 'Assumpta?' she called out, but got no response. She turned back to see Brendan standing in the doorway, his expression grave. He shook his head.

Niamh sighed. She wondered how much longer her friend's heart would remain broken for the world to see.

* * *

_Another chapter today. I guess I'm feeling generous! I'm working hard to bring it all together._

_Any and all feedback greatly appreciated._


	24. Chapter 24

Peter sat on the steps of the community centre. The community centre he didn't officially run any longer, but where he still spent most of his time, thanks to Sam. It was a Friday afternoon, and a huge number of kids had appeared. Peter was currently waiting his turn to play handball with a group of young boys on the street. A number of parents were gathered not far away, including Emma, Jack's mother. It was the first time Peter had seen parents stop for any length of time outside the centre. He wondered vaguely if he should introduce himself.

'Father! Your turn!' a young boy shouted. Peter jumped up.

'It's Peter! I'm not a priest anymore,' he reminded them.

He took his place in his square, readying himself to play, when a voice called his name. He turned to see a well-dressed young lady holding a microphone. She had a camera crew behind her. Peter raised his eyebrows. 'Excuse me, Father, do you have a moment? Father Johns here said you might,' she explained, and stepped aside to reveal Sam standing there, smiling wryly. Peter looked at him quizzically.

'They heard about the plight of the community centre, and wanted an interview. I said who better than the man himself?' Sam said, smirking. Peter smiled.

'Sure. No problem,' he said. The reporter looked delighted, and lined him up in front of the centre. 'Although, you've probably heard I'm no longer on the books of the Catholic Church,' he said carefully. She nodded.

'It's Peter, yes?'

'Yes.'

'Great. Ready to go?' He nodded, and she counted him in.

'I have here with me ex-Catholic Priest Peter Clifford, who is leading the charge to save the Community Centre. Mr Clifford, how did this all come about?'

Peter swallowed. He didn't want to completely dishonour the church, but he needed to tell the truth.

'Well, the church felt it was no longer a viable option in the area.'

'And you felt differently?'

Peter decided to tread carefully. 'The community told me they wanted it to stay open.'

'But the church said it had to close?' Peter swallowed again.

'Yes.'

'How did you feel about that, Father?'

'I was saddened by the news, but I understood the church's position in these difficult economic times.' Sam raised his eyebrows and smiled, impressed.

'Would you say that was then the main reason for the centre to stay open? That in these tough times young people need a refuge?' she pushed. Peter tried to dodge that bullet.

'The community has definitely seen a clear benefit from having the centre, yes.' The reporter smiled, realising he wasn't going to fall into her trap.

'How important do you think the centre is to the community?'

'I think the centre has the potential to be a vital hub in this community. Young people are our future, and we deserve to give them every chance,' he declared. Sam gave him a thumbs-up from behind the camera, and Peter suppressed a smile.

'Father, how do you feel about the Catholic Church? You've just handed in your resignation. Hard feelings?' Peter swallowed a wry smile.

'I suppose my priorities had changed.'

'But you quit in a blaze of anger.'

'What?' That had come out of nowhere. Peter looked shocked.

'A source has informed us that you and Bishop Morris had a rather heated discussion prior to your resignation,' she said. Peter tried to remain impassive. He didn't want to lie, but there was no way he was admitting to that.

'I don't know what to say. That's simply not true. Like I said, I felt that my direction lay outside the church, and Bishop Morris respected that.' The reporter narrowed her eyes.

'So no hard feelings?'

'No, none at all. The church continues to do excellent work in the community, and I'm grateful for the opportunities it has provided me,' Peter said, a note of finality to his voice that the reporter didn't miss.

'When do you expect to hear about the results of the tender?'

'Next week sometime. Sooner rather than later, I hope,' Peter said.

'Good luck, Mr Clifford.'

'Thank you.' Peter sighed as the camera dropped.

'Well done, Mr Clifford,' the reporter said wryly. 'Very…dignified.' Peter returned her smile.

'It was all the truth,' Peter said innocently. She grinned at him and headed over towards where some of the parents were gathered. Peter grimaced, and turned away. He didn't really want to know what the parents had to say. He looked over to where Sam had a large grin across his face.

'You dumped me in it,' Peter said, and Sam laughed.

'Well, you wanted publicity!'

* * *

Mark wandered downstairs. It was 1am, and, as usual, the front porch was lit up. Mark sighed, grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen, and headed out to sit next to his younger brother on the steps of his house.

'This is not healthy, Peter.' Peter snorted.

'It's not by choice.'

'Same dream?'

'Always.'

Mark stared at his little brother. 'You still love her.' Peter looked down at the ground, his silence answering Mark's question.

'Peter, you're not a priest anymore.' Peter turned to look at him, not sure what he was hearing.

'What do you mean, Mark?' he asked cautiously.

'You said you'd devote your life to God if He brought her back; if he saved her.'

'I do recall the details, Mark,' Peter said bitterly.

'You asked God not to take her away - and then you took yourself away. You didn't even give Him a chance.' Peter stared at his brother, and Mark held his gaze. 'You imposed conditions on that deal that were never there to start with, Peter.'

Peter looked down at the ground. Mark wasn't right - he couldn't be. And even if he was, that ship had sailed. He couldn't go back. He could never go back. It was best for her if he just left her alone, if he let her move on. Without him.

Priest or no priest, Assumpta Fitzgerald was better off without him.

'It's not that simple, Mark.' Peter swallowed. He was going to find out sooner or later, and he needed to know the extent of the problem. Not that it had been a problem a couple of months ago… 'She's married.'

There was silence as Mark processed the bombshell Peter had just dropped.

'Married?'

'Married.'

Mark let out a low whistle.

'Yeah.'

'What happened, Peter?' Mark wasn't stupid. He knew Peter would not have gone near a married woman; he just wasn't that kind of man. There had to be more to it.

Peter sighed. 'I pushed her away. He was an old flame; he'd been chasing her for months.' He shook his head. 'She said she hoped he'd push me out of her head, in time.'

Peter thought back to the moment she'd introduced Leo as her husband. He'd barely been able to contain his shock, and his hurt. He'd forced himself to shake Leo's hand. To put on a face that said the news meant nothing to him, other than to congratulate her. He knew he hadn't really succeeded; the look on her face had told him more than enough.

And then Leo had left, and Peter had realised why. And that's when he had stopped sleeping.

'So where's he now?''

'Gone, but they're still married. You have to wait four years in Ireland before you can get divorced,' Peter explained.

'So…it doesn't really change anything, then, does it?' Mark said. Peter sighed.

'Mark, it's not that simple!'

'No, Peter. You're wrong. She chose you. It _is_ that simple.' Mark stood up. 'And you're a fool if you don't see that.'

* * *

Assumpta lay on her bed, the tears long dried up. She felt numb, blank.

He had rung to see how she was.

It had hurt to hear, but she told herself it meant nothing. He was just trying to assuage his guilty conscience for leaving her alone in the hospital, she told herself.

Her foot ached, reminding her that she hadn't quite reached the stage where she could take the stairs two at a time. She leant over and grabbed the bottle of painkillers the hospital had given her for when it ached, and downed two.

'Assumpta?'

Assumpta turned to see Niamh standing in the doorway with a cup of tea.

'Thought you might like this,' she said quietly. Assumpta turned her attention back to the ceiling. Niamh walked over to the bed and sat down anyway, placing the tea carefully on the bedside table.

'Are you ever going to talk about it?' Niamh asked. Assumpta didn't reply. Niamh looked down at her friend sadly. She looked gaunt, grey bands appearing under her eyes. She hadn't been eating, Niamh knew that much. She suspected she wasn't sleeping well either. She shook her head and stood, heading for the door.

'We were going to get married.'

Niamh stopped and turned on one heel, the shock registering on her face.

'He was going to leave the priesthood. He'd only decided that day.'

Assumpta's voice was almost monotone. Niamh just stood silently, trying to process the information. Everyone knew something was going on; you'd have to have been blind not to see. Everyone in the pub that night had watched as Peter had fallen apart in the basement. How he'd refused to let her go.

But no one had realised it had gone as far as it had.

Niamh closed her eyes, the depth of Assumpta's pain registering in her mind. It all suddenly made sense.

'He told me he loved me.'

* * *

_Any and all feedback much appreciated._


	25. Chapter 25

Peter sat on the steps of the centre, watching the kids play handball by the streetlight. He'd bowed out gracefully after a few rounds, citing his sore hand.

_You can't take this away from them. You can't. _

He rubbed his good hand over his face. His right hand was healing, but too slowly for Peter's liking. The doctors had decided he'd only lightly fractured his knuckles, but had done some significant muscle damage – the bruising was impressive, he'd been told - and had bound his hand for at least four weeks. It had been just over two, and Peter had had enough.

Sam walked up the street and sat down next to him, watching the kids.

'How'd Mass go?'

'Quite well. We seem to collect a few more people every day,' he said. Peter nodded, surprised. He would have assumed that the not-so-good publicity the church had received – courtesy of their decision to sell the centre – would have pushed people out the door, but clearly not.

'I assume you haven't heard?' Peter asked hopefully, already knowing the answer.

'You would be the first to know, Peter.' Peter nodded.

'What will you do?' Sam asked. Peter looked at him, confused. 'If, for some reason, God decides not to answer your prayers.' Peter frowned and looked at his feet. He hadn't thought about it – he couldn't bring himself to even consider that he might lose the centre. That he might lose the boys.

'I don't know, Sam,' he admitted.

'Would you stay in Manchester?' Peter shrugged.

'Maybe. I haven't given it any thought, really.' He could go anywhere, do anything. And the thought scared him. His conversation with Mark a few nights' earlier had been replaying in his head ever since. He couldn't go back. He wouldn't. He couldn't do that to her. He couldn't leave her, half-dead in a hospital, and then turn up on her doorstep three months' later.

She was trying to forget him, the same way he was trying to forget her. It killed him to think it, but he knew it was for the best. And she'll be doing a much better job, he thought.

Sam patted him on the back. 'You'll figure it out, I'm sure. Your heart knows what to do,' Sam said, reciting Peter's own words back at him. Peter smiled wryly at the retreating figure of the priest.

He had no idea what he would do if they lost the centre. But he knew one thing – he was not returning to Ballykissangel, no matter what.

* * *

Peter watched as Sam pulled the doors the community centre shut. There were still a handful of kids running around the carpark, and several parents still standing around talking.

'We should get a coffee can,' Peter mused as he watched them. Sam looked at him, his eyebrows raised.

'Sure.'

Peter smiled wryly. 'Ok, ok…'

Sam grinned at him. 'Your optimism is infectious, Peter.'

Peter sighed. 'It's the only thing keeping me going, Sam,' he admitted. Sam nodded.

'I know.' Peter watched as Emma glanced over at him.

'Those parents have been here for a while,' he commented. Sam nodded.

'It is a community centre, Peter. Adults can come here too,' he joked, and Peter smiled.

'That's not what I meant.'

'I know. It's a good thing though,' Sam replied. 'We need their support as much as their children's.' Peter nodded.

He ran his good hand through his short hair. _Time for a haircut_, he thought absent-mindedly, before a soft voice interrupted his thoughts.

'Father-Peter?' Emma said, smiling tentatively. Peter looked surprised, but smiled.

'Mrs Carter,' he said.

'Emma.'

'Sorry, Emma. I'm sorry I can't offer you tea or coffee,' he said, motioning towards the group. 'We're a bit low on everything.' She shook her head, smiling.

'No, it's fine. I've been talking to some of the other parents. We're all very grateful for what you've done for the community here,' she said, her face serious. 'We'd all but given up on the centre, until you came along.'

Peter couldn't help blushing; he didn't take compliments well. 'It's been great, really,' he replied. 'They make it easy,' he added.

She shook her head. 'You didn't have to do what you've done with Michael, and with Jack.'

'They're fantastic kids. It's been really great to work with them.' He looked around. 'I know what it means to grow up around here,' he added. 'I couldn't not help. Besides, it was my job,' he said finally. Emma shook her head.

'No, it wasn't. But I hope it remains that way,' she said, smiling at him before turning to leave.

Peter watched as she walked away, but soon turned at the sound of a V8 engine driving far too fast up the street. The black Mercedes pulled up with a screech outside the centre, much to Peter's annoyance.

'Haven't you learnt your lesson?' he asked loudly as William Jones climbed out of the car. Jones ignored the comment and walked up to Peter slowly, an envelope in his hand.

'We got it.'

* * *

Peter lay on the small patch of grass at the front of Mark's house, looking up at the night sky.

He still couldn't believe it.

There had been stunned silence after Jones' announcement. Peter had just stared at him, unable to comprehend what Jones had said. Sam had clapped his hand over his mouth in shock. Jones' arrival had attracted the attention of the few remaining parents, who shouted their opinion of his driving in less than complimentary terms, before realising who he was.

'We got it,' Peter had repeated dumbly.

'We got it,' Jones had confirmed, a wide grin spreading across his face.

There was mass chaos from that moment on. The parents realised what had happened and started cheering, which brought the remaining kids out of the carpark to see what the commotion was. Michael and Jack had run straight up to Peter, high-fiving him and Sam, the excitement written all over the faces. They were cheering and shouting with the rest of the kids. Eventually the number of kids had tripled, thanks to Michael and Jack's text messaging, all coming around to congratulate Peter.

Once everyone had started to leave, Peter grabbed Jones.

'How did you do it?' Peter asked. Jones looked innocent.

'What do you mean?' Peter narrowed his eyes.

'You know what I mean. Our tender was three-quarters that of Cole's.'

Jones feigned innocence. 'Oh, I just reminded Morris of a few favours I'd done for him. Oh, and the publicity potential didn't hurt either,' he said, the look of innocence still playing across his face. Peter grinned at him.

'Thank you,' he said, meaning every syllable.

Jones clapped him on the arm. 'Thank you, Peter.'

Peter stared up at the stars.

_Thank you._

* * *

Bramson held out his hand, and Peter shook it gladly.

'Well done, Peter. Looks like you'll be staying in Manchester for a while,' he said, and Peter smiled.

'That's the plan.'

Peter took a sip of the champagne Bramson had insisted on bringing down to the centre. He'd invited Jones and Sam as well, who all stood around, sipping from their own glasses.

'I have something for you,' Bramson said, still smiling. Peter frowned a little.

'For me?'

'Oh yes.' Bramson pulled a box from his suit pocket and handed it to Peter. 'You're going to need your own again, now,' he said. Peter looked at him, confused, but opened the box.

Inside were a set of keys attached to a sterling silver keychain with a sterling silver cross. Peter smiled.

'Thank you,' he said, shaking Bramson's hand again.

'It's all yours, Peter, as of midnight.' Peter sighed happily, unable to wipe the smile from his face.

'We've discussed the arrangements for the control of the centre,' Jones said. Peter nodded. 'I'll be on the board, as will Alan, and another civilian representative from the council.' Peter nodded again. The council did fork out the lion's share of the cost, so it was only fair they had greater representation. 'I've asked Sam if he wouldn't mind either,' Jones added. 'Pillar of the community and all.' Sam shook his head. Peter smiled at him. 'Sounds like an excellent arrangement, William.'

'And one other member,' he announced, and Peter frowned. Who else could possibly have a stake in the centre? 'You, Peter.'

Peter looked at them, stunned.

'Me?'

'Of course, Peter,' Bramson said, laughing at the former priest's reaction. 'This is your centre in all but name. You're going to run it day-to-day. It's only fair that you have a say in how it's run.' Peter looked from Jones to Bramson. No, they weren't joking.

'Wow, thank you,' he said, still a little stunned.

'You've earned it, Peter. We wouldn't be here without you,' Sam said.

'I wouldn't be here without the centre,' he admitted. 'This place has changed my life.'

'Here's to life-changing community centres,' Jones said, raising his glass. The others all did the same.

'Here's hoping we change many more,' Sam added. Peter grinned.

He could be a part of that. And on his own terms.

* * *

_Thankyou for all the reviews so far - they're a huge part of what keeps me writing._

_All feedback greatly appreciated._


	26. Chapter 26

Alex wandered down the main street of Ballyk, the local shop in his sights. He'd been a priest long enough to know that every community had a gossip, and Kathleen Hendley was Ballykissangel's finest. He stopped out the front of the store, pretending to study the fruit on display. A quick glance into the store told him Kathleen was right where he wanted her – behind the counter, and watching him with curiosity. Now was his chance.

He walked up the stairs of the store, pushing the door open.

'Ah, good morning, Mrs Hendley,' he greeted her cheerfully. She smiled back at him.

'Good morning, Father.' He walked down one of the aisles, pretending to look for something. He eventually grabbed a loaf of bread as his excuse and made his way to the counter.

'How are you today, Father?' Alex smiled.

'I'm good, thank you, Mrs Hendley. Yourself?'

'I'm well, thank you, Father.'

Now was his chance. 'Oh, have you got any of those homemade muffins, Mrs Hendley? Father Mac insisted I try one next time I was here,' he said. Kathleen smiled.

'Oh, Father, indeed I do,' she said, walking quickly to the back of the store to retrieve one. She returned a few moments later. 'Apple and cinnamon today,' she said. 'A traditional recipe, but a good one, I think,' she added. Alex nodded.

'Father Mac says they're better than life's bread,' he said with a knowing look. Kathleen blushed.

'Oh, well, I don't know about that, Father,' she said bashfully, 'but they are homemade, which in my opinion, is better than any of those packaged products. So much processing, and they taste like cardboard, you see.' Alex nodded thoughtfully, the look on his face agreeing with every word she said.

'I completely agree, Mrs Hendley. There's far too much packaging and processing in society today,' he said.

'Oh, definitely, Father.'

Stage two, he thought. He looked through the glass windows of the store over at Fitzgerald's, and shook his head. He pretended to rummage in his pocket for change.

'Something bothering you, Father?' Kathleen asked.

'Hmm? Oh, no, nothing,' he replied. He plastered a frown on his face. 'Well, actually…' he trailed off, pausing. 'I'm a little worried about the publican, Mrs Hendley, but I haven't seen her at mass.'

Kathleen shook her head. 'Oh, no, you'll never see that one at church, especially not now,' she said, a knowing look on her face. Alex looked concerned.

'Why not?'

'Well, she's never been a church-goer, Father. Especially now not after Father Clifford upped and left without a word,' she said, clearly unimpressed with Father Clifford.

'Father Clifford? I don't understand,' he said, genuinely confused now.

'Ah, Father, it's not my place to talk out of turn, but there was something…' she trailed off. 'Well, you know,' she said quietly. 'Father Mac had tried to put a stop to it, but young people these days…' she trailed off, a knowing look on her face. Alex nodded, feigning concern. 'Disgraceful, him being a man of the cloth and all,' she added. Alex just nodded, the pieces starting to fall into place.

'When did he leave, Mrs Hendley?'

'Oh, right after Assumpta's accident,' she replied. 'Lucky to be alive, she was. Electrocuted,' she said, her eyes wide. 'Grace of God, Father, grace of God,' she said decidedly. Alex raised his eyebrows. Things were far more complicated than he had assumed.

'God is good, Mrs Hendley, even when we least deserve it,' he said, trying to cover his surprise.

'That He is, Father. You enjoy that muffin,' she said, handing him the paper bag.

* * *

Brendan sipped his hot coffee as he perused the local paper. It was part of his morning ritual on a Saturday; he would get up when he woke up – which wasn't usually late - make a coffee, and read the paper.

He perused the pages; the new local councillor was causing a stir by wanting to lift the ban on heavy machinery on a road outside Cilldargan…new shopping centre opening in Cilldargan…a good news story about a local student getting a scholarship to a Dublin University…

He suddenly stopped, a picture catching his eye. He pulled his feet of the chair and sat up properly, examining the photo carefully. He subconsciously put his coffee down, frantically reading the article attached to the picture.

He looked at the clock on the wall and stood up. He had to get to Fitzgerald's.

* * *

Father MacAnally settled down in his chair and put his feet up. He had just enough time to read the paper before he would need to get ready to make some calls. He picked up his cup of tea, sipping it carefully, scanning the pages.

A headline caught his eye. His eyes widened slightly as he put his tea down, grabbing the paper to read the article more closely.

His mouth set in a firm line, Father Mac put the paper down and picked up the receiver of the phone sitting next to him.

* * *

Sam grinned as held the newspaper in front of him.

''Ex-Priest Saves Community Centre',' he read proudly. Peter smiled incredulously.

'You what?'

Sam grinned as he placed the paper down on Peter's desk. ''Ex-Catholic Church priest clearly still has God on his side as he out-bids Joe Cole to save a local Manchester community centre',' Sam read. Peter walked around his desk to read more.

_In a move that stunned the local community, the Centre was put up for sale only months ago by its owner, the Diocese of Manchester. The community rallied around Clifford, who managed to persuade a group of investors, including the local council, to put in their bid…_

Peter looked at the picture – it was clearly a screenshot from the camera footage of the interview he'd done a few weeks' earlier. The inset was a rather unflattering photo of William Jones.

'I told you you were popular,' Sam said jokingly. Peter smiled.

'Everyone likes a happy ending,' Peter reasoned, sitting down again. Sam chuckled.

'Yes, they do.'

Brendan opened the door to Fitzgerald's, noting only Niamh was behind the bar. Her eyes widened as she noticed the look on his face. He motioned with his head to the end of the bar where Padraig and Siobhan were already sitting, also reading the paper. He stood in between them, and slapped the paper down, folded to the page with Peter's picture.

'Seen this yet, have you?' he whispered quietly.

'Oh, no,' Niamh muttered under her breath, gaping at the smiling face of Peter Clifford staring back at her.

'Uh oh,' Siobhan said quietly, echoing Niamh's concerns.

'What do we do?' Padraig asked quietly.

'Where is she, Niamh?'

'She's just gone upstairs, but she'll be back down in a moment,' she said quietly.

'Alright. No one mention a thing. Assumpta doesn't read the paper, so with any luck, she'll never see it,' Brendan said decidedly. They all nodded.

As if on cue, Assumpta came walking down the stairs. She stopped when she laid eyes on the small, very guilty-looking group at the end of the bar.

'What's going on?' she asked, pulling her jumper down.

'Nothing,' Niamh replied, picking up a tea towel and walking down the bar. Brendan grabbed the paper and pulled it down by his side, trying to look disinterested, but failing miserably. Padraig stared at the paper until Brendan hit him in the side – he'd just opened it to Peter's page. Padraig realised his mistake and closed it quickly.

'Ah, coffee, Assumpta?' he asked quickly. Assumpta eyed him, but said nothing.

'I'll have one too, thanks,' Brendan declared loudly as he hit Padraig over the head with the folded paper whilst Assumpta's back was turned.

'How's the foot?' Siobhan asked, shooting daggers at the other two.

'It's fine. Still a little sore, but they tell me it should be fine in a few weeks,' Assumpta replied, placing the coffees down in front of the two men. 'Another appointment Monday,' she added, leaning against the bar, and Siobhan nodded.

'Need a lift?'

'Uh, I think Niamh offered, but she could probably use a break,' she said, looking over at Niamh, who shrugged and nodded.

'That'd be great, Siobhan, thanks. I should probably spend some time with my family soon or Kieran will forget what I look like,' she joked.

'Hopefully they'll let me drive soon,' Assumpta said, frustration filling her voice.

'Ah, I'm sure they will. Enjoy it while you can,' Siobhan said. 'It's not often you get chauffeured around.'

'And I'm glad,' Assumpta replied.

The bell for the door rang, and the tall frame the new priest wandered in.

'Morning, Father,' came the chorus from the regulars. Assumpta set her mouth in a line, but said nothing.

'Morning. Could I have a coffee please?' he asked Assumpta. She pushed herself off the back of the bar and wandered around to pour him a coffee. Alex studied her as she turned, still mulling over the information he'd managed – rather easily – to get out of Kathleen Hendley. It explained a lot; her attitude towards the church – towards him – her obvious anger and frustration. The way the town rallied around her, and covered for her when things got tough. He had to admit he liked that about the town; they looked after their own.

Assumpta put the coffee down in front of him, and he passed her some coins.

'Thanks,' she muttered, and he smiled at her, a smile she didn't return.

One step at a time, he thought.

This was going to be a long road.

* * *

Assumpta eyed the paper under Padraig's arm. They'd been talking about her, no doubt, but she'd been too far away to catch it. She figured it must all centre around the paper; they'd rushed to hide it when she'd appeared.

She had to get a copy of that paper.

She excused herself from behind the bar, muttering something about fresh air, and walked across the road to Hendley's. She grabbed a paper from the front and walked in to pay for it. Kathleen Hendley looked surprised to see her; Assumpta didn't visit Hendley's very often, mostly on principle.

'Kathleen,' she remarked, pulling the coins out of her pocket.

'Since when do you read the paper?' Kathleen asked, surprised.

'Since now,' Assumpta replied tartly. Kathleen raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

Assumpta turned to leave when Kathleen's voice stopped her. 'Are you sure you want to read that?' she asked quietly. Assumpta stopped. Was she sure? She had her suspicions about what was inside. Did she really want to reopen a wound that was just beginning to close?

Assumpta looked back at Kathleen.

'Yes. I'm sure.' Kathleen met her gaze steadily. Assumpta thought she saw something – pity, maybe? – in her eyes for a second before she turned away.

She walked quickly back across the street, car keys in hand. She opened the back door and threw the paper in, not wanting the others to know she'd bought a copy. She hesitated; part of her was dying to know what was in that paper, but another part of her screamed to let it go.

She sighed and slammed the car door. She would come back and get it later.

* * *

Assumpta threw the paper down on her bed and stared at it. She'd spent most of the day thinking about it, her mind going through all the possible options.

_Are you sure you want to read that?_ Kathleen's words echoed in her mind.

No, she wasn't sure.

She sat in the chair across from her bed, staring at the paper as if it might suddenly jump up and bite her.

She had no idea what they were trying to hide from her, but she could guess at least one thing: it was going to have something to do with Peter Clifford.

She sighed and gave herself a stern talking to. She needed to know. She could handle it.

She reached over and opened the first page.

* * *

_Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated._


	27. Chapter 27

Peter smiled as he surveyed the room, sipping his juice. Jones had insisted they throw a party and invite the community. Peter hadn't objected, but had told Jones and Bramson they needed to fund it. Jones had waved him away, saying he had a friend in the catering business. And so Peter stood at the edge of the hall, watching Michael and Jack teach some of the smaller boys some of their futsal moves.

'Well done, Peter,' a voice called from behind. He turned to see Andrew, a wide grin on his face.

'Andrew! Hi!' he said excitedly, shaking the man's hand. 'It's all thanks to you, really. You're the one who showed me it was possible,' he said, and Andrew shook his head.

'I merely showed you it was possible. You did all the hard work,' Andrew said, smiling back at him. Peter noticed the pretty woman standing next to Andrew.

'Oh, sorry – Peter, this is my wife, Sarah,' he said. Peter shook her hand and as they exchanged greetings.

'The one rule I don't miss,' Andrew commented, and Peter forced a smile.

His heart ached. He'd received his letter from the Pope releasing him from his vow of celibacy earlier that week. He hadn't expected it so quickly – he'd been told it could take months – and when it arrived, he didn't feel as pleased as he expected he would have. It had dredged up a whole raft of emotions, all to do with one woman.

'So, Peter, what are your plans?' Andrew asked, interrupting Peter's thoughts. He responded enthusiastically, happy for the distraction, and they spent the next twenty minutes or so discussing Peter's plans for the centre.

Mark wandered over to them, happy to see his old friend, and joined in the conversation happily. Eventually Jones stole Andrew and his wife to discuss finances, leaving Mark and Peter alone.

'Andrew seems like a nice guy,' Peter commented.

Mark nodded. 'And very happy, too.' Peter shot his brother a look.

'Don't start,' he said.

'I didn't say a word,' Mark countered, before moving off to join in the futsal game that had started towards the back of the hall.

Peter walked outside and sat on the steps of the hall, enjoying the cold autumn evening. It was cloudy, he noticed. No stars tonight. He looked out at the young group of boys who seemed to have made the front pathway their own permanent handball arena. Peter smiled; they were thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Sam sat down next to him. 'I never was a huge fan of parties,' he admitted. Peter looked at him.

'Really?' Sam shot him a look, and Peter chuckled. They sat in silence for a few moments, both watching the boys play.

'It was nice to see Andrew here,' Sam said. Peter nodded.

'Yes, I thought it was important to invite him.'

'He seems very happy.' Peter rolled his eyes.

'Not you too,' he muttered. Sam raised an eyebrow.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' he said innocently. His face became serious.

'Peter, you're still not sleeping. And don't bother, it's written all over your face,' he added when Peter began to protest. Peter shook his head. 'Peter, you cannot go on like this. You've managed to hold yourself together admirably for a long time, but it's beginning to take its toll.'

Peter knew the older priest was right. He knew he had lost weight. He had been telling himself it was because of all the futsal training – his upper body had definitely bulked out a little – but he knew better. His face looked almost gaunt, and he'd had to buy new trousers. Mark's wife had tried feeding him more and more at dinnertime, but nothing much made a difference. Peter didn't feel much like eating most of the time anyway.

The nightmares were the only constant, and he was only getting three or four hours' sleep a night. It was always her; her cold, white, lifeless face haunted his dreams.

He was trying so desperately to forget her, but his heart wouldn't let him.

'I can't, Sam. I can't,' he said quietly, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. 'It's too late.'

'You don't know that.' Sam put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. 'There's nowhere left to hide now, Peter.'

* * *

Brendan looked up as he heard the door of the pub open. 'Father.'

'Brendan,' Father MacAnally replied. He looked around at the semi-full pub.

'Can I help you, Father?' Father MacAnally looked up at Brendan, studying the younger man's face for anything; any sign, any hint that he'd read the same article Father Mac had. Brendan's blank face gave away nothing.

He'd rung Alex that morning, wanting to know if anyone new had appeared in town recently, but Alex hadn't known of anyone. Father Mac had pushed, much to Alex's confusion, asking if there had been any Englishmen around the village, especially around the church or Fitzgerald's. Alex had eventually replied that, being one himself, he would definitely remember any Englishmen loitering in the very Irish town of Ballykissangel.

Father Mac hadn't been content with the answer, and had eventually decided to head into the small town to see for himself.

He scanned the pub; nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Certainly no tall ex-priest sipping a lager. He sat down at the bar. 'Whiskey, Brendan, please,' he asked, and Brendan obliged.

Sipping his whiskey, he turned to see the brown head of Assumpta Fitzgerald appear from the kitchen. She stopped for a second when she saw him, but quickly continued down the bar.

'It's good to see you back, Mrs McGarvey,' he announced, and Assumpta's head shot up. She eyed him, instantly furious.

'It's no longer Mrs McGarvey,' she said quietly through gritted teeth. Father Mac looked confused, and Assumpta didn't see any need to enlighten him, continuing down the bar. He took another sip of his whiskey, feeling decidedly out of the loop, and not enjoying the feeling.

* * *

Brendan stood quietly, observing the scene before him. Father Mac had clearly come here for a reason, and Brendan suspected he knew why. He leaned across the counter.

'Still got that subscription to the paper, Father?' he asked quietly. Father Mac looked at him, his face stony.

'I see you do, Mr Kearney,' Father Mac said, feigning ignorance.

Brendan's steely voice was just loud enough for Father Mac's ears. 'Only Assumpta doesn't. And nor does she get time to read the paper. I think it should stay that way, don't you?' Father Mac looked at him. So Peter Clifford had not returned.

'I agree, Mr Kearney. Very much.' He put his whiskey down. 'You've been very helpful, thank you.'

* * *

Niamh unlocked the door of the pub, looking carefully inside. 'Assumpta?' She hadn't seen the publican since she'd rushed off to bed, clearly preoccupied. Niamh had left, herself preoccupied with the article in the paper, happily leaving her purse behind. She realised when she'd gone to put her handbag away, and had raced down the road.

'Assumpta? It's just me. I forgot my purse,' she said loudly.

She turned when she heard a noise. 'Assumpta?' The publican was sitting in one of the leather chairs by the fire, a glass of what Niamh guessed was whiskey sitting next to her.

Right on top of the article about Peter.

Niamh closed her eyes and sighed. She had prayed Assumpta wouldn't see the article; that it would go unnoticed, and that she would just get on with her life, but her prayers clearly hadn't been answered.

''Ex-Priest Saves Community Centre',' she said quietly. Niamh sighed heavily. 'I guess I know why you hid it from me.'

'I'm sorry, Assumpta. We thought it was for the best,' Niamh replied dejectedly.

'A community centre in Manchester.' Niamh nodded.

'Yeah.' Niamh sat down. Assumpta looked over at her. Niamh guessed she had been crying, but she couldn't see any evidence of it on Assumpta's face.

'Assumpta,' she started, but stopped. She had no idea what to say.

'Go home, Niamh. I'm fine,' Assumpta said, putting the glass down and standing up. 'I'm always fine,' she said quietly as she walked up the stairs.

Niamh sat, staring at the fire.

* * *

Brendan stood outside the pub, leaning against the wall. It dark, and the air crisp, but Brendan didn't mind. He liked winter; everything was cold and fresh, and the air was biting. It made him feel alive. He sighed heavily. He'd thought briefly about not getting involved, but he'd realised early on that wasn't really an option for him. He cared too much.

He turned and opened the door to the pub. Assumpta was there, behind the counter, putting something away. She looked up when the pub door opened, surprised, but her face changed when she saw Brendan.

'We're closed,' she said, looking back down at what she was doing.

'Assumpta.' She ignored him. 'Assumpta, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the article.' She didn't look at him. 'We thought it for the best,' he added, trying to explain. He didn't think he'd done the wrong thing, but he knew she'd been hurt. 'I'd do it again, you know.'

She looked up at that, shooting him an indignant glare.

'You had no right.'

'What, no right to protect you?' he cried. She glared at him.

'I don't need your protection,' she said, her voice hard.

'You're right. You don't,' he said. She looked up at him, confused. 'I forgot, you're a grown woman. Able to look after yourself.' She glared at him.

'What do you want, Brendan?' He looked her directly in the eyes.

'I want you to go to Manchester.'

* * *

_Thankyou for the great reviews; they're encouraging and rather helpful._

_All feedback greatly appreciated._


	28. Chapter 28

Assumpta dropped the towel she was holding.

'You want me to _what_?' she cried.

'Go. See him. Get an explanation. Hit him. Do something!' Brendan cried. 'You can't keep going like this. You're biting everyone's heads off, making yourself miserable and dragging the rest of us with you!'

She glared at him, surprised at his outburst, but furious.

'No,' she said, her tone holding everything but the sense of finality she craved.

'Why not?' Brendan asked. She wheeled around to stare at him.

'Why should I?' she retorted.

'Because you love him,' Brendan said quietly. She stopped where she stood, breathing deeply. Brendan's words cut through the air like a knife, and lodged in firmly in her chest. 'And he loves you.'

'He-' She stopped, taking a deep breath. She wasn't having this conversation. 'I don't know what you're talking about, Brendan,' she muttered, trying again to busy herself with something. Anything. Anything to distract her from this conversation.

'We were there, Assumpta. The night you died.' She stopped what she was doing, and leant against the counter, breathless – something that was becoming more and more common. She couldn't bring herself to look at him. Her eyes burned with hot tears, threatening to spill out on to the wooden counter in front of her. Brendan's voice was quiet. 'He fell to pieces. He begged you not to leave him.' Brendan's eyes burned with tears at the memory. 'Father Mac pushed him to give you the last rites; we all did. He refused; he said you wouldn't want them, but he eventually gave in. It nearly killed him.'

Assumpta watched the tears splash down on the counter in front of her, but did nothing about them. She'd spent months telling herself she didn't care; that she didn't want to know. That she didn't need to know. That he didn't really love her. That she didn't really love him.

She knew she was fooling herself, but she hoped over time that she would eventually begin to believe the lies. That she would move on, and that none of this would matter anymore.

Brendan looked up at the roof of the pub, willing himself to calm down, willing his throat to loosen. To hold back the tears. 'He thought you were dead, Assumpta. And it nearly killed him. He wasn't the same after that night.' He paused, breathing deeply.

'The look on his face…' He stopped for a moment, collecting himself. He hadn't realised quite how much that night had affected him. He thought of Assumpta as a little sister; someone to protect, someone who needed protecting - from herself, more than anything else. He took a deep breath, steeling himself.

'Something happened that night, Assumpta, and you have to find out what it was.'

Assumpta's vision was blurred by the tears that refused to stop falling. Her chest hurt with the weight of the pain of his words.

Brendan opened the pub door, turning back to face Assumpta.

'I don't care what you tell yourself, Assumpta, but Peter loved you, and I don't think anything could ever change that.'

* * *

Sam wandered over to where Peter was kneeling, helping a small boy to tie his shoelace.

'Hi Father Johns,' the young boy waved. Sam grinned and waved back. Peter stood up and smiled.

'All done,' he announced.

'Thanks, Peter!' the boy yelled as he raced off to rejoin his friends.

'They love you,' Sam observed. Peter frowned.

'I wouldn't say that, but they're definitely enjoying the place.' Sam put his hand on Peter's shoulder.

'Peter, I got a phone call today.' Peter turned to Sam, his face full of concern. Sam's face was serious. 'It was a friend of mine, who's a priest just outside of Cilldargan.'

Peter's face fell as he felt his stomach do a backflip. Any mention of Ireland…

'He had been reading the paper last week…' Sam trailed off, leaving Peter to fill in the blanks.

Peter felt himself break out in to a sweat. If it had made the paper in Cilldargan, then Ballyk…

Peter leant against the stack of chairs lined up against the wall. His mind raced. Assumpta didn't read the paper, he knew that much. But Brendan did. And so did Padraig. And he knew Siobhan liked to read it every once in a while. And Father Mac…

He looked up at Sam, a hopeless sense of resignation on his face. 'She knows.' Sam frowned.

'You don't know that, Peter.' Peter shook his head, burying it in his hands.

'Yes, I do. They all read the Cilldargan paper. Someone will have mentioned it.'

'Do you think they might try to hide it from her?' Sam asked, but Peter shook his head in despair.

'Maybe,' he replied, not really believing it.

Sam put a hand on Peter's back.

'Ring, Peter. Find out what's going on,' he urged. Peter looked up at him. Sam looked him squarely in the eyes. 'You can't hide anymore, Peter. You have to finish this.'

'It is finished,' Peter said quietly.

'No, it's not, Peter.' Sam pointed to Peter's chest. 'It's not finished in here.'

* * *

Peter cradled the phone in his hand. He thought back to the last time he'd spoken to Brendan; he had said he would keep in touch. Peter felt bad that he hadn't, which only compounded the fears he already held about making this phone call.

He swallowed. He wasn't even sure why he was ringing. He told himself he needed to forget her; that he needed to let her move on, even if it killed him. He needed to let her go. He couldn't go back now.

But he needed to know if she knew about him. If she knew he wasn't a priest anymore. He knew it was more than that: he needed to know if she was happy. If she was finally moving on with her life.

He'd felt a sense of his own betrayal when the letters had arrived releasing him from his vows; only months earlier he'd imagined racing down the street to Fitzgerald's, showing her the paperwork and picking her up in his arms, twirling her around while she laughed…

And there he'd been, sitting in his room at Mark's house. Alone.

He gave himself a stern talking to about letting his mind wander to places it shouldn't, which did very little, and punched in Brendan's number. It rang a few times before it picked up.

'Hello?'

'Brendan.'

'Peter. Hi,' Brendan said calmly – too calmly.

'How are you?' Peter asked after an awkward pause, not really knowing what else to say.

'I'm fine, thanks. How are you?'

'I'm ok. How's Siobhan and the baby?' he asked, quickly changing the topic.

'They're doing great.' There was a pause while Peter pulled himself together. It had suddenly hit him again how much he missed the little community.

'Peter, what's wrong?' Brendan asked.

'The paper, Brendan,' Peter managed to get out after a few moments. He heard Brendan sigh on the other end of the phone.

'I'm sorry, Peter. We tried, but somehow she found out,' he said. Peter's heart crumbled. He felt the panic rise in his chest; his stomach was doing backflips. He rubbed his hair with his hand, trying to calm himself down. 'Peter?' Brendan asked when there was silence for too long.

'Yeah,' Peter replied.

'Peter, you have to come back.' Peter nearly dropped the phone. He couldn't. There was no way. Didn't they all understand that? He'd made a deal. He couldn't go back now. It was too late. Surely Brendan of all people understood that.

'I can't, Brendan,' he said, his voice strained.

'Peter, you have to. You have to tell her what happened.'

Peter swallowed, willing the tears away. His throat tightened. 'I…I can't, Brendan. I…' he stumbled.

'She's falling apart, Peter. She doesn't understand, and only you can explain.' Peter said nothing; he didn't know what to say. His heart yearned to hold her; to pull her into his arms and make it all better. To know that she would hold him back. To tell her he was sorry. But he knew he could never do that. He couldn't play with her heart like that, because it wasn't going to be ok. Not for him.

He took a few deep breaths, getting his voice under control.

'Tell her to forget me, Brendan.'

'You know she can't do that.'

'She has to,' Peter stumbled out, the pain overwhelming him. 'She has to.'

'Why?' Brendan cried, trying to understand, but failing. 'What happened, Peter? None of this makes sense!'

Peter dragged in a ragged breath.

'Just trust me, Brendan. Please.'

Brendan clenched his jaw. He was frustrated now, almost angry.

'It wasn't just Assumpta you left, Peter.'

That cut Peter deep. He knew he'd hurt people when he'd left; he knew leaving without a word of goodbye, a word of explanation, wasn't kind, but he couldn't explain. He didn't even know how to. He'd made a deal with God? Mark had understood – he'd always been close to God – but Brendan? Niamh? It was the first time he'd even really considered how the rest of Ballyk were feeling, he realised, and he loathed himself for it. What a friend he was.

'I'm sorry, Brendan. I shouldn't have rung. I'm sorry,' he spluttered.

'Peter!' Brendan cried, realising what Peter had just said, but it was too late – he'd hung up. Brendan threw the phone down.

Brendan loved his friends, but even he'd had enough.

* * *

Peter sat on the familiar concrete steps. He hadn't even tried sleeping; it was no use. He was consumed with pain and self-loathing; it ate at him, reminding him of how selfish he'd been to leave them all without even trying to explain. How selfish he'd been leaving Assumpta. How selfish he'd been to even fall in love with her in the first place.

He felt a tear slide down his cheek and wondered vaguely if he'd ever stop crying.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe he needed to go back and at least try to explain. He knew she'd never understand. She'd never believe that she'd been a part of some cosmic deal he'd made with the creator of the universe. That he'd exchanged his happiness – their happiness – for her life.

He thought about what Mark had said - _you imposed conditions on that deal that were never there to start with, Peter._

Surely he was wrong. Surely God had meant it as a wake-up call; he wasn't meant to leave the priesthood, least of all get married.

Then what was he doing now?

He looked up at the stars.

'Did I do the wrong thing? Should I have stayed?'

He put his head in his hands.

He turned as he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Mark sat down next to him on the steps, saying nothing. Peter closed his eyes, allowing the cool autumn breeze to cool his hot, flushed face.

'You have to go back, Peter.' Peter looked down at the ground in front of him, the pattern in the stones of the walkway all but memorised.

'It's not that simple, Mark.'

'We've had this conversation.'

'You think I'm a fool,' Peter said, the contempt clear in his voice.

'No, I think you're a coward.'

A sudden rage rose up inside Peter, one he barely managed to contain. 'What?' he whispered viciously.

'You're a coward. You were so terrified of losing her – of having your heart broken – that you ran away at the first sign of trouble.' Mark stood up. 'You don't deserve her,' he said quietly, before turning and walking back inside.

Peter sat there, stunned. Mark's words had been like a dagger, straight to the heart. His chest ached, the physical mirroring the emotional. Peter put his head in his hands.

_Am I a coward?_

_Is Mark right? Did I really run because I was terrified of losing her?_

_Is Sam right? Did I use You as an excuse?_

He looked up at the stars, a small voice in the back of his mind telling him what do, but not knowing whether or not he had the strength left.

He suddenly thought back to his first days in Manchester, when he'd paced the hospital waiting room after dropping Jack off. The white halls had felt suffocating, echoing the white walls of his dreams. He'd barely managed to hold it together, saved only by the fact that William and Sam had been there. He'd decided he needed to figure this one out on his own.

He snorted to himself. And you've done such a sterling job, he thought. He looked back up at the stars.

_If you want me to go back, you have to help me. Because I can't do this on my own._

* * *

Assumpta lay in a now very familiar position on her bed, studying the ceiling.

Maybe Brendan was right, she thought for a fleeting moment, before banishing the betraying thought.

Brendan wasn't right. She needed to forget Peter Clifford, and visiting him in Manchester was certainly not a stepping-stone to memory loss.

But maybe he was right…

She put her hand on her forehead. Her head almost ached from the conflict she knew was simmering in the back of her mind. She allowed it to come to the front of her mind, to thrash it out. To decide once and for all.

The thought of visiting him in Manchester made her feel physically ill - the thought of just seeing him made her stomach do painful somersaults. The whole idea made her feel sick.

But maybe Brendan was right, and she just needed to find out what had happened. Why he'd left her barely alive in a hospital after begging her not to run away only hours earlier.

She felt the tears sitting in the corner of her eyes and wondered vaguely if she would ever stop crying.

It hurt to think about it. Peter; kind, soft-hearted Peter Clifford, the only man in Ballyk who could soothe a crying Kieran in a few short minutes. The man who wore his heart on his sleeve for the world to see. The man who had been so torn for so long between duty and love. Peter Clifford, who had professed his love for her the same day he'd dropped her at a hospital and left her, seemingly forever, without a word of explanation.

Maybe she did need to know why, but she wasn't sure she had the strength to cope with the truth.

* * *

_Thankyou to all who have sent in a review - they mean a lot._

_Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated._


	29. Chapter 29

Assumpta leant against the bar, lost in thought. It was early evening; there were only a few of the regulars sitting at the bar.

'Whiskey please, Mrs McGarvey,' a voice stated, more than asked. She snapped her head up, her eyes fixing on the only person who would call her that. Her eyes met the cold, dark eyes of Father MacAnally, who was sitting at the bar.

'There's no one by that name in here,' she retorted acidly, not moving. Father Mac leant on the dark wood of the bar.

'The church does not condone divorce, Assumpta. You know that,' he said simply. A smile played across her face, much to Father Mac's confusion.

'I am not divorced, Father.' She leant back against the back wall of the bar, holding Father Mac's unwavering gaze, the small but definitely smug smile still firmly plastered on her face. He wasn't going to win this one.

He eyed her, considering his options. Eventually he dropped his gaze. 'I'll have that whiskey,' he announced. Assumpta bit her tongue as she poured him his drink; he was a paying customer, after all.

She looked up as Alex walked in the door and pulled up a stool next to Father Mac. 'Father,' she said, smiling at Alex, more for Father Mac's benefit than out of her own goodwill.

'Ms Fitzgerald,' he replied lightly, smiling back.

'Ah, I see you've met our new curate, Assumpta,' Father Mac said.

Ignoring his comment, she turned to Alex. 'What can I get you?'

'Ah, just an orange juice,' Alex replied, eyeing Father Mac. Assumpta almost grinned to herself; he certainly was new. It had taken Peter only a couple of weeks to start drinking alcohol in front of Father Mac… She shook her head, frustrated with herself, but not for the first time that day.

'Are you enjoying Ballykissangel, Father?' Father Mac asked Alex. Alex nodded.

'Yes, Father. It's a beautiful place,' he said eagerly. Assumpta smiled; few who came to Ballyk were unimpressed by its beautiful landscape. 'The people are very friendly,' he added.

'Yes,' Father Mac replied, looking directly at Assumpta. 'The people are very friendly to the clergy around here.' She clenched her jaw, but said nothing, choosing to ignore the Priest's comment. 'Very friendly,' he muttered, sipping his whiskey. Alex looked over at Assumpta worriedly – even he could see the tension between them.

'Could I have a ham sandwich, please, Ms Fitzgerald?' he asked, trying to change the topic. Assumpta glared at Father Mac before moving down the bar to accommodate Alex's request.

Brendan walked through pub door, shaking the rain off his coat as he hung it on the door. He stood at the bar next to Alex. 'Father,' he said, greeting the younger man, before he spotted Father Mac. 'Ah, Father. To what do we owe the pleasure?' he asked.

'Just keeping an eye on things, Brendan,' he replied. 'I don't feel I've kept a close enough relationship with my curates over the past couple of years. What do you think, Assumpta?' he asked, as she returned with Alex's sandwich. She eyed him, keeping her anger at a simmering burn.

'I couldn't care less what you do, Father,' she replied acerbically.

'Oh, I thought you had a keen interest in the church,' he said quietly. 'Or was it just a particular aspect?'

Brendan turned to face the priest, incensed. 'You are out of line,' he said quietly.

'Get out,' Assumpta said, her voice almost inaudible, barely containing the fury building up inside of her. Father Mac just eyed her, not moving from his seat. 'GET OUT!' she roared at him, exploding from the back of the bar, her arm pointing to the door. The bar went quiet at the sound of her voice; the ten or so faces of the regulars all turning towards the pair. Brendan stood still, glaring at the elderly priest, his own anger barely contained. Father Mac held her gaze for another second before standing and turning to leave, slowly walking to the door. She watched him go, her eyes burning with hatred for the older priest.

Alex stood. 'I'm sorry, Assumpta,' he said, shaking his head, clearly not knowing what to say. Assumpta didn't look at him, instead concentrating her anger on the now-closed door of the pub, where Father Mac had just exited. Brendan put a hand on his shoulder and motioned for him to move down the bar, out of Assumpta's path. He'd seen Assumpta that angry before, and the poor priest didn't deserve to cop what was inevitably coming.

* * *

Assumpta stared at the door. She would like to think she couldn't believe what had just happened, but she knew Father Mac. Even still, he'd gone too far this time.

She felt the rage overwhelm her. She had to get out. She threw the towel she was holding down on the counter and stormed out, blinded by her fury. She raced up the stairs, ignoring the pain in her foot, the nerves protesting the abuse. She walked into her room and started pacing.

She had to get this under control. She couldn't let him get under her skin like that. She'd overreacted, she knew, but he was completely out of line. Peter wasn't even here anymore…

Her face crumpled as the ferocity she had felt turned suddenly to pain. She felt the tears wet her eyes. She pounded the wall with her fist. She was exhausted by the constant emotion she felt; anger, fury, hurt, sadness. It was as if the wound in her heart was still weeping, and she couldn't stem the tide of anguish – an anguish that so swiftly turned to rage. A rage she could not control.

As much as she told herself she didn't – as much as she didn't want to admit Brendan was right – she knew she needed to know why.

The gaping wound that Peter Clifford left in her heart needed to be filled.

* * *

_Thank you for the feedback I've received so far!_

_Any and all feedback greatly appreciated. _


	30. Chapter 30

Alex stood at the end of the bar, staring back at where he'd just been sitting. He couldn't believe what he'd heard. What Father Mac had said. He reminded himself that he didn't know anything, according to the people in the bar.

He'd watched as Assumpta had thrown down the towel she'd been holding and fled up the stairs, ignoring Brendan, who had called after her.

He walked back down the bar to Brendan, who had taken a seat on one of the stools, his face miserable.

'Brendan, I'm sorry,' he said quietly. Brendan looked up at him.

'Not your fault, Father,' he said, motioning for Alex to sit down, which he did. 'Father Mac is a grown man,' he said bitterly.

Alex sat for a few moments, thinking. He knew he was still new in town – he also knew he'd never not be considered 'new' by a good chunk of the community – but he felt useless. Everyone had closed off, shut down; even confession numbers were down according to Father Mac. He was frustrated. He wanted to help – Alex Jackson didn't do useless well – but he knew the root of the problem was here, with the broken, tempestuous publican. He needed to know more.

He frowned, wondering how to broach the obviously very tender subject of Assumpta and the priest with Brendan. He decided for the direct approach, not able to think of any other way. 'Brendan, what's going on?' he asked. 'I know I'm new and all, and if it's none of my business, tell me, but I'd really like to help.' Brendan glanced at the priest before taking a sip of his stout.

'It's a long story, Father.'

'I've got all night.'

Brendan chuckled humourlessly. 'Of course you do.' He looked over at the determined face of the priest. Alex could tell he was being judged, and wasn't surprised – after what had happened with the last priest they'd trusted…

'Ah, you'll find out one way or another,' he eventually said. He put his stout down on the bench and crossed his fingers, sighing deeply.

'Peter, the priest here before you…great man,' Brendan said, shaking his head. 'Great priest.' He paused. 'We all liked him,' he said, looking at the stairs, 'but some more than others.' He looked over at Alex, who nodded, understanding. Brendan shook his head. 'The way he looked at her…well…' Brendan trailed off. Alex nodded, letting out a breath.

'That's a big call, Brendan,' he said, not judgementally. Brendan nodded.

'It was obvious. Well, obvious to anyone with eyes,' he said. He looked down, his face dropping. 'And then…' he trailed off. 'I don't know what changed. Peter had just lost his mother, and he'd been away…Well, something was up that day. Peter came bursting in here that afternoon looking like he would explode, but we were all here setting up for the Food Fair, so he disappeared. Assumpta disappeared not long after, just for a few minutes…when she got back…well, I've not seen her so happy in years. That night at the Food Fair, Peter spent the whole night looking like the cat who'd got the cream.' He smiled ruefully at the thought, before his face fell again. 'And then the lights went out. Assumpta had been having trouble with the fuse-box for weeks.'

'She was electrocuted?' Alex asked after a few moments.

'Yeah,' Brendan said quietly. 'I'll never forget that night. Peter…I don't think I've ever seen…' he trailed off. 'He was inconsolable.'

Alex looked confused. 'But she's ok now…' he said slowly. Brendan turned to face him.

'She was declared dead on that basement floor,' he said quietly.

Alex's jaw dropped. _Dead?_ He stared at Brendan.

'Yeah,' Brendan, said, taking a sip of his stout, letting the news sink in. 'Peter wandered off, but Doc Ryan somehow convinced him to get in the back of the Ambulance with her,' he continued. 'And then we get a phone call from the hospital. Ambrose, hysterical, screaming down the phone that she was alive.'

Alex's eyes were wide. He had no idea what to say. He'd tried filling in the gaps that his discussion with Kathleen had left, but without success. No wonder.

'Peter left the next day. No goodbye, nothing,' Brendan said. 'I caught him up on the Dublin road, but he wasn't forthcoming. He just said he needed to leave.'

Alex frowned. 'Why?'

Brendan sighed. 'I don't know, Father. But I know one thing for sure. Peter wouldn't have left here without very good reason,' he said, his voice firm, but filled with double-meaning. Alex nodded mutely.

'Have you heard from him?'

Brendan nodded. 'Twice,' he said sadly. 'He rang to see if she was ok,' he said.

Alex frowned. 'To see if she was ok?'

'All I know is that he's in your hometown, Father. And as of a few weeks ago, he's no longer a Catholic priest. I don't know any more than that,' Brendan said, his voice loaded with meaning. Alex stared at Brendan.

'You mean…she…' he trailed off.

'Not a word.' Alex raised his eyebrows. This got more and more complicated by the minute.

'Why?'

Brendan shook his head. 'I don't know, Father. I don't know.'

* * *

'Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?' Niamh asked, not even trying to conceal the concern in her voice. Assumpta shook her head.

'No. This is something I need to do alone,' she said, looking up at her friend. Niamh pursed her lips; she didn't think this was a good idea, but maybe it was a good thing. She wanted Assumpta to forget him, to move on, but she knew it was wishful thinking. Things needed to be settled, Niamh knew, and not just with Assumpta.

If nothing else, she wanted to know what had happened that night – she knew she couldn't begin to imagine how Assumpta felt about it.

'Are you sure you'll be ok?' Assumpta asked, putting her bag down. Niamh raised an eyebrow at the publican.

'No, I've never run a pub on my own before,' she said, and Assumpta frowned at her, the sarcasm not lost on her. 'Ah, get on with you!' she said, pushing Assumpta out the door to where Brendan was waiting. He smiled as he opened the back door of the car, allowing Assumpta to throw her suitcase in.

'Ready?' he asked. Assumpta took a deep breath, averting her eyes.

'Nope,' she replied, before getting into the front seat.

* * *

Peter walked into the church and sat down in the last pew. Mass was still going, although he could tell it would end soon. He watched Sam as he ran through the last prayers and eventually ended the service. He exchanged smiles and greetings with several of the parents who walked past, recognising them from the centre.

Eventually, the church was empty, and he stood and made his way to the back of the church, knocking on the Sacristy door. He felt his nerves kick in, and took a deep breath.

'Come in,' Sam called, as Peter walked on through.

'Peter,' he said, looking back down as he hung up his robes. 'What's up?' he asked, eventually turning to face Peter.

'I-' he started, his voice shaky. He stopped. He couldn't believe he was doing this. Sam looked at him steadily. Peter took a deep breath.

'I think I need to close the centre for a few days.'

Sam frowned at him, confused. The community centre was closed on Sunday mornings and Mondays…why would Peter need to close it for longer than that? He studied the young man's face, looking for an answer, and finally realising what Peter meant. He smiled.

'Of course. When do you leave?' he asked carefully.

'I can't get a flight out until Tuesday, he said, clearly frustrated. Sam smiled at him.

'Then you have two days to prepare yourself.'

'More like two days to panic,' Peter replied.

Sam patted him on the arm. 'Just pray.'

* * *

Peter flicked the switch, plunging the hall into darkness. He walked over to the doors; he knew the way by memory now. He just prayed he'd remembered to check all the tennis balls were away - that mistake had cost him a considerable bruise on his lower back and rather sore ego for a few days.

He pushed the door to the community centre open, looking out over the now-deserted road. It was seven o'clock, and was dark, save for the streetlights that flooded the pavements with light. A cold breeze hit him; autumn was rapidly turning into winter. He turned and pushed the door shut, sliding the lock into place and securing the padlock.

'Peter.'

Peter stopped, the voice cutting through the quiet air like a knife. Peter felt his heart rate instantly rise, a cold sweat breaking out all over his body.

He turned, looking down the steps of the centre to the person standing under the streetlight, his eyes meeting those dark eyes. He blinked; maybe he had missed his chance and was now crazy. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe it was a figment of his imagination.

He blinked again, but the sight before him remained the same.

There, standing before him, as beautiful as ever, was Assumpta Fitzgerald.

* * *

_We're getting closer and closer... I just hope it doesn't disappoint. I have rewritten the following chapters at least five times, not including the countless edits..._

_I really appreciate all the feedback so far - I've definitely considered every word you've sent. Please feel free to give more - it really does help!_


	31. Chapter 31

Assumpta stood at the bottom of a set of steps and looked up at the building in front of her.

This was it.

According to the information at the hotel, they closed at 5pm on Sunday evenings. She looked at her watch: 5pm.

She couldn't believe she was standing there. That she'd made it all the way to Manchester. That she'd found the centre. That she'd found him.

An urge to turn and run suddenly flooded her, but she didn't move. She couldn't move. She had come all this way. She couldn't turn back now.

Could she?

She could turn back. She could say she couldn't find him, that he'd moved on. She could tell them the truth; that she'd panicked at the last minute and had run.

Maybe she could come back tomorrow.

She turned to walk away when she heard the doors creak open. She stopped, her terror gluing her to the spot. She couldn't leave now, even if she wanted to. She watched as the doors opened and he stepped out onto the top step.

Everything was suddenly silent. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She tried breathing deeply but all she could manage were short, shallow breaths. She watched as he pushed the doors shut and fiddled with the lock.

'Peter.' His name was out of her mouth before she realised what she was doing. He stopped instantly, pausing before slowly turning around.

She would never forget the look on his face as long as she lived; he looked like he'd just seen a ghost.

* * *

Peter's breaths were ragged, but he didn't even notice. All he could see was the woman standing at the bottom of the steps, not five metres in front of him.

Standing.

Alive.

His heart was pounding in his chest. He stared at her beautiful face, his broken heart racing. He'd spent so long trying to forget her – trying to stay away so she could forget him – but in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to run down those steps and scoop her up in his arms and never let her go.

He took a step forward down the stairs towards her, and she dropped his gaze, trying to collect herself. He kept walking slowly towards her, as if she were a frightened animal he might scare away with a sudden movement.

She was here. She was alive.

She looked back up at him, meeting his eyes once again. She was no longer completely the frightened animal; an all-too-familiar determination and steel had been forced into her eyes.

He didn't stop walking, every second getting closer and closer to her, until he was just inches away. He could reach out and touch her.

'You left,' she stumbled out, the steely resolve in her eyes cracking. He felt as though his heart had shattered into a million pieces at the sound of her voice.

'Assumpta,' he whispered, his voice failing him.

'You left me there,' she said again, louder this time. He could see that despite the steely exterior she was desperately trying to hold herself together; the conflict of fight or flight still raging in her mind.

'I know.'

She stared up at him. 'Why?' she whispered, her voice cracking.

He watched as a tear rolled down her face. His arm automatically reached up to wipe it away. She moved her head slightly, away from him, instinct telling her to stay away. To keep him at arm's length. He dropped his arm, stung by her movement.

'I was wrong,' he started, his voice cracking. He took a deep, ragged breath in, breaking her gaze and looking up at the sky before looking back down at her. 'I never should have left you.'

She stared at him. 'I just need to know what happened,' she said, finding her resolve again. He looked up at the stars, trying not to fall apart. Trying to find the words to tell her what was in his heart.

'I…' his voice faltered, and he ran his good hand through his hair, desperately trying to pull himself together, but failing miserably. His mind was spinning. He wasn't prepared for this. She wasn't meant to come here. She was meant to be in Ballykissangel, behind the bar. Away from him. He had no idea what to say. 'I don't know what to tell you,' he admitted.

'The truth,' she spat, frustration overwhelming her. He just stared at her; she was angry. Angry at him. 'I just need to know what happened that night.'

'You wouldn't believe me even if I told you.'

'Try me,' she said acidly, turning her hurt and frustration into anger. Rage. Fury.

He looked at her, his face blank.

She couldn't help it; she exploded. 'I spent months in that hospital, Peter. Months! I had doctors coming in and out, asking me the same questions over and over again. No one could believe I was alive. No one knew how I'd survived. No one could tell me how I had survived, Peter!' She took a deep, rough breath. 'Tell me how I survived,' she said, her voice like acid.

He looked at her, the tears running down his face. She hated him. He'd lost her, and it was only his fault.

It was at that moment that Peter realised had never let her go, and never would. His heart belonged to her, and he was never going to be able to retrieve it, no matter how much he tried. He took a deep breath, pulling himself together. It didn't matter anymore.

He sat down on the step.

'I don't know, Assumpta. I don't know.'

She stared at him uncomprehendingly, refusing to allow her anger to subside.

'I was the first to get to you,' he started, reliving his nightmare. The nightmare he'd relived countless times before. Revising every detail, beating himself up for letting her go down there alone. 'You were lying on the floor. I tried to wake you up, but you wouldn't.'

She felt the hot tears run down her face. She blinked them away angrily, furious with herself for crying. Furious with him for being the only one able to make her cry. She willed herself to stop crying, desperate to hear every moment of his story.

'Brendan and Michael came down, and they tried, but I knew. I knew you were gone.' He paused at the memory, wiping his face with his hand.

'I gave you the last rites, you know. I didn't want to, but they begged me. Niamh begged me.' His voice broke, and he swallowed, trying to recover.

'And then they took you away in the Ambulance, but they stopped when they got to me. Michael wouldn't let me go, he said I had to ride with you to the hospital. You were so white…I touched your face …and that's when I realised you were breathing. You were breathing,' he cried, putting his head in his hands. His body shook with the silent sobs.

He hadn't really cried since that night. He'd felt hot tears splash down his face countless times, unable to stop them, but he'd always managed to get himself under control before he really lost it.

He couldn't stop that now.

'You were dead, Assumpta. You were _dead_!' he cried. 'And then you were alive,' he whispered.

She stared at him, her face soaked with the silent tears she hadn't been able to stop. For a split second she realised just how much this had killed him; just how much he had suffered that night, and the realisation was too much for her to bear. She pushed the thought away. He was no longer in her life after tonight. All she wanted was an explanation. Information.

And now finally knew what happened that night; the missing pieces were starting to fall into place.

Except for one.

'Why?' she whispered. He looked up at her, his face red and wet from crying. She stared at him, not understanding. Not understanding the most important piece of the puzzle. The key to everything. 'Why did you leave?'

He stared at her. 'Because I had to.' She stared back at him, his answer raising more questions than answers.

'I knew they would look after you. I knew Brendan and Niamh would look after you. I knew Leo would come.'

She stared at him. 'Leo?' she half-cried, surprised.

'I knew you would be ok,' he said. He stared up at her face, willing her to understand, but all he saw was confusion. He grunted, realising he would have to tell her, and knowing that she would never believe him.

'I made a deal, Assumpta. I made a deal for your life. A deal that meant I couldn't be part of it.'

'What?' she spluttered. She was now completely confused; her mind was like a fog. She struggled to think through everything he'd said, but she couldn't. Her confusion only made her angrier.

'I stood on that bridge, in the rain, and made a deal with God. I begged Him not to take you away from me. I traded your life for mine,' he said simply.

She stared at him, struggling to process what he was saying. It was crazy. Nonsense. God. Lives. Trading…

She tried to breathe, but she couldn't. She realised with a jolt how much her chest hurt; her heart was racing. Her head was pounding. She couldn't deal with this now. She couldn't process this here. She had to get away. She had to get away from him and God and everything he was saying.

She turned on her heel and ran.

* * *

_Another chapter today because I'm not sure I'll get to post one tomorrow._

_I rewrote this scene about four times before settling on the first version, with numerous edits. I hope it's ok. T__here's still plenty more to come..._

_Any and all feedback/comments/criticism greatly appreciated._


	32. Chapter 32

Peter stood as he realised what was happening.

'Assumpta!' he cried, standing to his feet. He turned and chased after her, but she was fast, and she had a good head start on him, and he soon lost her in the crowded shopping mall only a few hundred metres away. He stopped, desperately scanning the crowd for her long, dark hair, but he couldn't see her. It didn't help that she wasn't overly tall, either. He walked around, trying to find her, panicking when he couldn't. He searched for what felt like forever.

In desperation, he ran to a payphone and desperately dialled Sam's number.

'Hello?'

'Sam? She's here!' he shouted desperately. 'She came. She was outside of the hall, and we were talking, but she's run off and I can't find her-' He stopped when he realised Sam was shouting at him.

'Peter! Peter! What?'

'She came, Sam. She was here.'

'What happened?'

'She wanted to know why, Sam. So I told her. And she ran.'

Sam stopped, struggling to process.

'Where are you now?'

'The mall.'

'I'll meet you outside the centre in a few minutes, ok?'

Peter agreed and hung up the phone. He spent the next few minutes looking around the mall for her, but he knew it was hopeless.

He'd lost her.

* * *

Assumpta ran through the mall, slowing down when her tears began to blind her. She walked quickly through the mall and up to her hotel, only stopping when she reached her room.

She threw her passkey onto the bed, pacing backwards and forwards, trying to process what he'd told her.

But she couldn't. She didn't want to. His explanation was crazy. It couldn't be real. He couldn't have done what he said he did. She believed in God, sure – as much as she protested, she didn't deny His existence – but doing a deal for her life?

She stopped, realising she needed to calm down. Her chest throbbed painfully from the stress; she sat down on the bed, taking deep breaths until she felt her heart slow.

She leant back on the bed, curling up into a ball.

She should never have come.

* * *

Peter sat in the corner of the entrance to the centre, in the darkness. The tears had gone, replaced with despair and self-loathing.

He'd lost her.

He looked out onto the pavement where she'd been standing. Alive. Beautiful. Waiting for him.

And he'd lost her.

He didn't look as Sam's car pulled up across the street. Sam got out of the car, and, guessing where he was, sat down next to him.

'Peter, tell me what happened.'

'I lost her,' he said, his voice expressionless.

'What happened?'

'She was waiting for me when I locked up. She was so beautiful…' he trailed off. He stopped, pulling himself together. 'I told her what happened…and she ran.'

Sam stared out onto the pavement where all of this had taken place. He'd dreaded this. He knew it was going to go one of two ways, and the worst had happened. He sighed. He knew it wasn't going to be easy, but he had hoped they'd at least sort some things out.

'Come on. I'm taking you home,' he said, standing up. Peter looked at him.

'Why?'

'Because you need to sleep,' he said finally. 'We will talk in the morning.'

* * *

Peter walked up the stairs and into his room, pushing the door shut behind him. He curled up into a ball, willing himself to go to sleep; to fall into unconsciousness, never to wake.

* * *

'Peter?' Brendan asked, surprised.

'Is she ok?' The tone of Peter's voice did not fill Brendan with hope.

'What?'

'Is Assumpta ok?' Brendan's heart sank.

'She's not back yet, Peter. Niamh's gone to get her from the airport, I think. She's due back soon.'

'Things…didn't end well, Brendan.' Brendan closed his eyes and sighed. He knew this might happen, but had hoped it wouldn't.

'I'll make sure she's ok, Peter.'

'Thanks,' Peter said.

'Peter?' Brendan asked quickly before Peter could hang up.

'Yeah?'

'Did you explain?' There was a pause at the other end of the phone.

'I tried,' came the eventual reply. Brendan sighed quietly.

'Ok.'

'Brendan? Thanks. For everything.' Brendan knew Peter was a smart man; he would have figured out that Brendan had at least a small hand in Assumpta's arrival in Manchester.

'You're welcome,' Brendan replied automatically, not sure if he really deserved Peter's thanks.

* * *

Peter sat on the steps of the community centre, coffee in hand. It was becoming a routine now; coffee in the morning and beer at night, he thought, but he didn't really care. He had slept fitfully; his body had been exhausted, but his mind wouldn't stop. He dreamt about her again, only this time she was running away from him, and he couldn't catch her, no matter how fast he ran.

He looked up as Sam walked up the stairs.

'Rough night,' Sam stated, more than asked.

'Yeah.'

He didn't comment on Peter's haggard appearance; they both knew he looked like hell. They sat in silence for a while. It was Sam's preferred method of getting people to talk; people who felt guilty would always talk first. People who wanted to talk would often talk first. If all else failed, however, he was happy to start asking questions. In Peter's case, it was usually the hard ones first.

'So what are you going to do, Peter?'

Peter looked at him, confused.

'What are you going to do?' he asked again. Peter looked blank, and vaguely annoyed. 'You still have a ticket to Ireland,' he finally added, joining the dots for the emotionally and physically exhausted young man. Peter shook his head forcefully.

'No.'

Sam frowned.

'Why not?'

'Sam,' Peter said, his voice tired.

'You know better than most that love, Peter, is a gift not bestowed on all of us. Its value is immeasurable, and as such it comes with its challenges. Don't scorn it.'

Peter stared at his feet. He knew what Sam was telling him, but he couldn't. He couldn't go there again. It had hurt too much.

Besides, what was the point? He'd lost her. She was gone. Forever. Going back to Ballykissangel wasn't going to change that.

'You need to decide what you value more. Her love, or your fear.' Sam stood. 'I still think the advice you gave Jack was excellent, Peter.'

How he wished Sam hadn't been standing behind him that day.

* * *

_Three chapters in two days. I'm so nice. ;)_

_Thankyou for all the reviews - they've been fantastic. I really appreciate the time and effort. Feedback of any kind is always very welcome, and definitely taken on board._


	33. Chapter 33

Peter sat on the steps of Mark's house, sipping his beer. As usual, Mark came and sat next to him.

'You were right,' Peter said, not looking at him. 'I was a coward.'

They sat in silence for a few moments, before Mark spoke. 'You thought you were doing the right thing,' he said. Peter sighed.

'I ran.'

'Your intentions were good.'

'Were they?' Peter asked, the self-loathing clear in his voice. He hated himself for hurting her. For messing things up so royally. For so deeply hurting the only woman he had truly loved.

'You always were the martyr,' Mark said, shaking his head. 'What are you going to do?' Peter sighed and shook his head.

'I don't know, Mark. I really don't know.'

'You still have a plane ticket.'

'That's what Sam said.'

'He's a smart man.'

Peter stared out across the road. He'd already told Mark the story of Assumpta's arrival and sudden departure. Mark hadn't said much, but he usually didn't straight away.

'Peter, you can't leave things like that. You'll never forgive yourself.'

Peter knew he was right. As much as he dreaded it, he couldn't just leave their final conversation an emotion-driven dialog ending in her fleeing him. He needed to finish explaining. He needed to tell her how he felt. He just needed her to understand, even if she did push him away, which he knew she would. He would just have to deal with that when it happened.

Most of all, he realised, he needed her forgiveness. The idea that she would spend the rest of her life hating him…

She had Leo, anyway, he thought bitterly. There would be no repeating of history. He could only hope she would let him explain before she threw him out of the bar forever.

He knew he was asking a lot of her, and himself – probably too much – but he was going to take the risk. He was going to lay his battered and broken heart down on the line one more time.

* * *

Niamh studied her friend's face as she approached. It didn't take long to realise things hadn't gone well. Assumpta looked like hell.

'Hiya,' she said gently, opening the car door for her.

'Hey,' Assumpta said tiredly. Niamh looked at her, but Assumpta was in no mood to talk. She couldn't; not yet. She knew Niamh would understand. 'I just want to go home, Niamh.'

Niamh nodded. She knew Assumpta would need time; time to process what had happened. Time to deal with it all. Time to crash and burn.

And Niamh intended to be there when she did. She also intended to push that time much further forward than she knew Assumpta would prefer.

* * *

Assumpta sat curled up on the couch in front of the fire, lost in thought. She had stopped trying to understand what he had meant. Part of her wanted to go back there and force him to explain, but the larger part just wanted to shut it out. Forget it. Push it away, down into the depths of her memory, never to be thought on again.

She wasn't strong enough for this; it hurt too much. She couldn't do it. She would force herself to forget him. He was gone.

A glass of wine suddenly appeared on the table next to her. She looked over to see Niamh sitting opposite her, a glass of wine in her hand, and a steely resolve on her face.

'Tell me what happened.'

Assumpta rolled her eyes and shook her head.

'I don't want to talk about it.'

'I don't care,' Niamh retorted, her face hard. 'You need to talk about it. So, go on. Spit it out.' Assumpta stared at her, realising Niamh wasn't going away. She had no fight left in her, and Niamh knew it. She sighed.

'He said he made a deal with God,' she said, not looking at Niamh, already knowing what the look on her face would be.

'What?'

'A deal with God. He said he traded his life for mine.'

Niamh sat in stunned silence for a few moments, processing what Assumpta had said.

'And you believe him?'

Assumpta looked at her. 'I don't know.'

Niamh raised her eyebrows. 'He's a priest, Assumpta. It's not out of the question.'

'_Was_ a priest, Niamh. Was,' Assumpta reminded her.

'Still. He was one then.' Assumpta didn't reply. 'I don't understand why he had to leave Ballyk,' Niamh said, suddenly confused.

'He said the deal meant he couldn't stay.' Niamh frowned, still confused. 'I don't know any more than that, Niamh.' She looked down at the glass of wine in her hand. 'I ran.'

'You what?'

'I ran,' she said, loudly. 'I couldn't listen any more. So I left.' Assumpta rubbed her collarbone; the pain from her heart often surfaced up there. It had been sore for hours, courtesy of the beating she'd put her heart through the previous day.

Niamh stared at her friend. Assumpta was not the kind of woman who ran away from things; everyone knew she was a fighter. Some too well.

At that moment Niamh realised just how deeply Assumpta had loved him, and just how deeply she was hurting. She stared at her friend, her heart breaking for her.

* * *

Peter picked up the phone and dialled Brendan's number. It was almost becoming familiar.

'Hello?'

'Brendan, it's Peter.'

'Hi, Peter.' He paused. 'She's ok, Peter. She's exhausted, but she seems ok.' Peter let out a sigh of relief.

'Thanks, Brendan.'

'Thank Niamh.'

If she ever speaks to me again, Peter thought. He wondered briefly if Niamh would ever forgive him for all this. He was going to need her to, if he was going to pull this off.

'Brendan, I need to finish this. I'm coming.' Brendan smiled, inwardly cheering. He had gleaned enough from Niamh to know that Assumpta had panicked and ran. He also knew that she wouldn't have panicked if she didn't care. If she wasn't terrified of having her heart broken again. If she didn't love him anymore. It had given him hope; maybe, just maybe, Peter could save her – if he could bring himself to.

'I'm glad, Peter.'

Peter took a deep breath in, calming his nerves. 'Do you think you could keep Leo out of the pub for a little while?'

Brendan did a double-take. 'Leo?' he repeated.

'Yeah. Only, he might not like it if I show up.'

'Peter, what are you talking about? Leo's in Dublin,' he said, confused.

'What?'

'Peter, what do you think is going on here?'

Peter frowned. 'I just assumed…I told the Garda to call him at the hospital. I assumed he'd stay with her…' he trailed off.

Suddenly, it all made sense. Peter had told the Garda to call Leo, knowing that no one in Ballyk would have the sense at the time. He knew Leo would drop everything to get to Assumpta, ensuring she would only be alone for a few hours at most – a few hours she would be unconscious. Brendan sighed and shook his head in disbelief. These two…

'Geez, Peter…' he trailed off. 'They're not married anymore,' Brendan explained. Peter's heart skipped a beat.

'What? What do you mean?'

'The marriage was annulled,' Brendan explained.

Peter was speechless. Not married…annulled… His mind was racing. Maybe…

'Peter,' Brendan said, when there was only silence on the other end. 'Please tell me that's not why you've stayed away,' he said.

'No,' he said dumbly, his mind still fixed on a single word. _Annulled_.

'When are you coming?'

'Tomorrow,' he said, his heart still dancing in his chest. He forced himself to calm down; he shouldn't be celebrating. It changed nothing. All he wanted to do was explain, and then he was gone. Whether or not Assumpta was married was irrelevant now. He was going to be lucky if she let him even speak, let alone take him back. He sighed. There was still a lot to do yet, and he was going to need Brendan by the end.

'I'm going to need your help, if you're willing to give it.'

'Whatever you need, Peter.'

* * *

It was the end of training, and Peter called the boys over.

'I'm going to be away for a few days,' he said. 'Father Johns will take training.' He eyed them. 'Behave,' he said sternly, pointing to each of them.

'Where are you going?' Jack asked.

'I have something I have to fix, Jack,' Peter said, raising an eyebrow at the precocious teenager.

'I bet it's got something to do with that girl he was talking to the other night,' Michael said, his voice knowing. The boys all made whooping noises and wolf-whistled. Peter's heart stopped.

'What girl?' he asked, shocked. Michael grinned.

'We were walking down the street to get some chips for dinner,' he explained, 'when we saw you talking to her.' Peter's heart sunk at the thought of what they might have seen.

'Oh, yeah?' he said, trying desperately to keep the mood light. He couldn't reveal how badly things had gone. They were only teenagers.

'Yup! She was really pretty,' he said suggestively, ducking Peter's mock-swinging arm. 'Is she your girlfriend?'

Peter snorted to himself. _If only._ He couldn't explain, even if he wanted to. How would you explain what had happened to them? Even the other person in the story didn't believe it. He opted for the shortest and easiest answer. 'No.'

'What?' Michael said, shocked. Brandon, complete with distinct look of triumph, put out his hand, as if expecting to be paid. Michael frowned at Peter. 'The way you were looking at her…' he cried. He eyed Peter. Peter stared back at him, stunned.

'You were that close?'

'Ah, we were only on the other side of the road. We couldn't hear what you were saying though, and then we decided to leave you in peace,' he said, pushing Brandon, who at least had the good sense to blush. 'Who is she, then?' Michael asked. Peter raised his eyebrows at the boys.

'What is this, the inquisition?' he said, trying to steer the conversation away from the painful memories that accompanied it.

'Don't avoid the question,' Michael said, clearly repeating someone who'd told him that too many times before. Peter threw his hands in the air.

'Alright, then. She was someone special,' he said diplomatically, hoping to keep the pain out of his voice. The boys all made whooping noises and wolf-whistled again, and Peter started pushing them away. They all wandered back to the futsal rectangle; all but Jack. He looked up at Peter.

'Do you love her?' Jack asked. Peter stared down at the young teenager. He could see the genuine concern on his face, and couldn't bring himself to push him away. He knew he shouldn't; he needed to be open with the boys. Jack had been honest with him, had trusted him. He wanted to do the same.

'Yes,' he admitted. 'More than anything.'

Jack frowned at him. 'Follow your heart. It usually knows what to do.' Peter stared at the young teenager. 'That's what you told me about girls,' he said uncertainly, responding to Peter's look of amazement. Peter's face softened and he smiled.

'Yes, Jack, I did. And you're right. I will.'

* * *

_Any and all feedback greatly appreciated._


	34. Chapter 34

Brendan put the last glass back on the shelf behind the bar and stood, surveying his handiwork. He'd considered buying a bar once. After the last few months, he no longer harboured the same ambition.

Assumpta walked out and around to the end of the bar and started lifting the heavy stools onto the solid wood of the bar. Brendan watched as she did it tirelessly, her face hard. She hadn't spoken much since she returned from Manchester, and she'd skilfully avoided his company in the twenty-four hours since. He sighed to himself. Niamh had obtained some information from her and had subsequently passed it on to Brendan angrily. Niamh was furious with Peter, but Brendan knew she was mostly just upset that Assumpta was hurting. That, and he suspected she'd never really forgiven Peter for leaving Father Mac to do Kieran's christening.

But now Peter was coming….

Brendan just hoped Assumpta had gained maybe even just a little more perspective from her visit to Manchester, although he suspected it had only served as a catalyst to bury her feelings.

He watched her toss the stool up on the table across from him. He just hoped she at least let Peter get a word in before she started throwing the stools at him.

He walked around the bar and grabbed his jacket, pulling it on as he headed to where she'd stopped to rearrange a mat on the bar.

'Assumpta, about Manchester,' he started. She stopped, clenching her jaw, but not looking up. 'It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see it didn't go well. I'm sorry.' Her eyes dropped, but her face didn't lose any of its ferocity.

'I'm fine, Brendan,' she replied hotly.

Brendan threw his hands in the air. 'Sure you are,' he said loudly. She turned to look at him, surprised by the outburst. 'You are anything but fine, Assumpta.'

She clenched her jaw, her face softening slightly with the truth of Brendan's words.

'I don't know what happened in that Ambulance, and I don't know what happened in Manchester, but I know you. And I know you aren't fine,' he said, his voice raised slightly. 'You can't go on like this.'

'What do you expect me to do, Brendan? Hmm?'

'I would have expected that you would have at least heard him out, Assumpta,' Brendan said quietly, interrupting her.

She glared at him, realising Niamh must have told him the little she'd told Niamh. She grabbed the towel she was holding and angrily continued wiping up.

Brendan sighed. She was in pain, and she only saw her own pain. She needed a little more perspective; something to pull her out of the black hole they could all see she was drowning in. 'How is Peter?' he asked quietly, and she turned to him, her face furious.

'You would know,' she retorted.

'But you don't,' he shot back, and she stopped, the fury not leaving her face. She slowly but very reluctantly realised he was right; she didn't really know how he was. She'd looked at him, talked to him, yelled at him; but she hadn't really seen him. Her mind went straight back to the images of that night. Of him.

'I don't know what you think of some of us, but we have eyes, and we see a lot more than I think you realise. We _saw_ a lot more than I think you realise.' Assumpta closed her eyes. Peter's quip about the dogs on the street knowing about them suddenly hit home. Everyone had known. Everyone still knew.

Niamh and Brendan had been right; she was falling apart for the world to see. And they all knew why.

Brendan knew he'd hit home, but there was just one more thing.

'He didn't just leave you, Assumpta, but he left because of you,' he said, before turning and walking out the door.

* * *

She lay there in the dark, the light of the full moon shining through the crack in the curtains.

The more she tried to push them away, the more her mind fought her. The images swirled in front of her eyes, and the details jumped out at her. He'd lost weight – not that he could afford to lose much – and he was thin. Painfully thin. The soccer jersey he'd been wearing was tight across the shoulders – he had obviously been doing some physical work, because his shoulders and arms were bigger than she remembered – but it was loose around his waist. His eyes were ringed in black, and his face had a sunken, gaunt look about it. He obviously hadn't been sleeping – she knew the feeling – and his hair was shorter.

But it was his eyes that haunted her. His usually bright green eyes were dull and weary, the black bags under them revealing the stress and sleep deprivation he'd been suffering. His eyes, that usually pierced your soul with their depth, no longer held the same strength.

The way he'd looked at her when he'd first turned around…

The shocked look he'd worn for a few minutes after seeing her had only accentuated the dark lines around his eyes. He'd looked exhausted. Hopeless. Vulnerable.

She felt the tears well up in her eyes; an almost automatic reaction when she spent too much time thinking about him. She blinked them away, allowing them to run down the side of her face onto the pillow.

Brendan's words had stung, but only because they were the truth. She'd been so wrapped up in her own pain, her own hurt and anguish, that she hadn't even surfaced to think about anyone else's. The town was hurting; their priest, a man they had grown to trust, had let them down. Brendan and Niamh and Siobhan and Padraig and even Eamonn were hurt by Peter's departure. A departure she had played at least a small part in.

She had been so selfish. They'd worked so hard to help her when she'd been away, and especially when she'd come back. Brendan was essentially doing two jobs, with Padraig filling in a lot too, and poor Ambrose had resigned himself to seeing his wife behind a bar for the rest of their marriage.

She wiped her face. Her hand and foot were almost healed; the doctors had decided that the nerve damage she had would either resolve over time or she'd be stuck with it. Her heart was another story, but she was managing that. Well, she took the medication when she was supposed to – keeping her heart rate down was something entirely different.

She knew she needed to cut them some slack now. She needed to get herself under control.

She'd done what she had needed to do. She'd seen him. He'd explained.

It was over.

She closed her eyes, focussing on the now rhythmic beat of her heart, allowing it to lull her in a restless, dream-filled sleep.

* * *

_Any and all feedback greatly appreciated._


	35. Chapter 35

Peter stood on the side of the road, watching the cars go by. He was surprisingly calm, considering he'd just arrived in Cilldargan. Since making the decision to come to Ballyk he'd felt a sense of calm. He had something to focus on, something to work towards. He'd spent hours thinking about what he'd say, how he'd approach her. He knew he'd need to stay in control of the situation, if he could. Once Assumpta got going…

He looked up the fairly familiar street. It was the closest he'd been to Ballyk in months, and definitely the closest he thought he'd ever be again. No going back now, he thought. He realised unhappily that he wasn't sure if he wanted to.

He looked at his watch. It was 3:30pm. Brendan had said he'd meet him here after he'd finished school – save any awkward encounters on the Ballykissangel bus - which Peter worked out would be around this time.

As he looked around, Brendan's car pulled up in front of him, and Brendan got out as Peter threw his bag in the back. Brendan shook his hand, his face serious, but happy.

'Good to see you, Peter.'

'It's great to see you too, Brendan,' Peter replied, his voice full of meaning.

Brendan studied his passenger as much as possible on the trip back. Peter was painfully thin, although he thought he remembered him not being quite so broad-shouldered. His face had a gaunt look about it, and the bags under his eyes were more like suitcases. Brendan sighed to himself, noting the similarities between Peter and Assumpta's current states of exhaustion. Peter probably edged out Assumpta, but not by much. Peter always did wear his heart on his sleeve.

'So, a community centre, eh?' Brendan asked. Peter smiled.

'A lot has happened, Brendan,' Peter admitted.

'I can see that,' Brendan said. 'Tell me about it.'

Peter told him all about the centre, filling in the blanks where the article had left out information. He told him about Sam and Mark, and the boys – his own futsal team – and his fight to save the centre. And finally, about his decision to leave the church.

'That's a big call, Peter.'

'I know.'

'Folks around here may not like it much,' he warned, and Peter nodded knowingly.

'But it was the right one. I think,' he added to the end.

'Yeah,' Brendan agreed, and Peter looked at him. Brendan shrugged. 'It was only a matter of time, Peter. You don't march to the beat of the same drum.' Peter smiled. Brendan knew him too well.

'That was the problem, yes.'

'So, you run the centre now?'

'Yeah.'

'On your own?'

'Mostly.' Brendan whistled and Peter smiled ruefully. 'It's a big job, yeah. But it's worth it. There are some fantastic kids.'

'Do you think you'll stay there?' Peter looked out at the houses that lined the outskirts of Cilldargan. He knew what Brendan was asking.

'Yes,' he said straight away, nodding his head. Brendan glanced over at him, surprised. 'All I want to do is explain, Brendan, and I'll be lucky if I even get to do that,' he said, his voice tinged with sorrow, and apprehension. Brendan sighed and rolled his eyes.

'Just see how it goes, yeah?' he suggested. Peter nodded. It was taking all his strength to keep his hopes down. He couldn't cope with disappointment at the moment, and that was certain to be one. All of a sudden the car reached the top of a crest, and all Peter could see was green. He couldn't stop himself from smiling, his heart soaring as they began to climb the beautiful green mountains of Ireland.

'I've missed this place so much,' he admitted, his voice strained, and loaded with meaning. Brendan glanced over at him. Peter could never hide his emotions well, particularly not now.

'Give it time, Peter. Give it time.'

* * *

Alex walked down the dark street, his keen eyes looking for Brendan's car. Brendan had told him of Peter's plan, and Alex had offered his help.

He spotted the car, just down the road from the church car park. He walked up to it, knocking on the window. Peter's head shot around, a look of alarm on his face. He wound down the window when he saw Alex.

'Peter? Alex Jackson. I'm…well, I'm the new you, I suppose,' he said with a smile. Peter shook off his look of surprise and opened the car door. He shook Alex's outstretched hand, looking around furtively. Alex smiled.

'It's ok. There's no one here. Not now, anyway,' Alex offered.

Peter smiled. 'You've been talking to Brendan,' he said knowingly.

Alex smiled back. 'And I think I can help,' he said. 'I have a tale of my own, Peter.'

* * *

Alex pushed open the door of the pub. It was busy, but not so busy that he couldn't find a quiet part of the bar to sit. Brendan saw him from behind the bar and nodded before busying himself with Padraig and Siobhan. Assumpta sighed and stepped over to the priest.

'Can I get you something, Father?' she asked curtly.

'Ah, pint of lager, thanks,' he replied. Brendan took his chance and moved down the bar, as Assumpta placed Alex's pint down in front of him.

'Father! Good to see you,' he said. He frowned. 'Now here's something new. Tell us a bit about yourself, Father,' he said. Alex glanced at Assumpta, who had leant against the back of the bar, her arms folded and a fiery look on her face. He could tell she was listening, however reluctantly. Now to keep her interest. 'How long have you been a priest?' Brendan asked.

'Five years,' he replied, taking a sip of his lager.

Brendan raised his eyebrows. 'Only five? What did you do before that?' he asked jovially. Assumpta glanced at him, her tongue in her cheek. Alex just grinned.

'Are you calling me old, Brendan?' Alex joked, and Brendan raised his hands in mock innocence.

'I would never, Father.' Alex laughed, but answered his question.

'I was training to be a teacher, actually,' he explained, and Brendan grinned.

'Good man!' he cried, and Alex smiled. Brendan was very much playing this up, and it was genuinely amusing. Niamh had sidled up next to Assumpta, watching and listening herself. 'I don't have to ask why you gave it up,' Brendan joked.

'My wife died,' he said, taking a sip of his lager. The change in the atmosphere around them was sudden and dramatic. Niamh and Brendan looked shocked. Assumpta closed her eyes.

'I'm sorry, Father,' Brendan said, his voice heavy with guilt.

'It's fine, Brendan. It was a long time ago,' he said, smiling and waving him off. 'It's ok now.' He looked around at the sombre faces of his small audience, knowing this was his chance. Assumpta was still there, blocked in by Niamh. She was fiddling with something below his eyeline, but he could tell she was listening.

'She was diagnosed with cancer. She fought it, but it only took six months.' Niamh's hand went to her mouth.

'So young,' she said.

'Yeah, she was 25,' Alex said. 'Too young.' He took another sip of his lager. 'I'd have done anything to save her,' he added gravely, staring at Assumpta. Her eyes rose to meet his. 'I'd have traded my own life for hers.' She swallowed and looked down, her pink cheeks flushing. 'Love makes you do crazy things,' he added, taking a big gulp of his lager.

'I suppose it does,' Brendan said sombrely.

'Anyway, that's why I became a priest. I raged against God for a long time after that. I couldn't understand why he'd taken her away from me. But the more I fought, the more I searched the bible for an answer, the more I began to realised that helping people was what I wanted to do.' He smiled. 'And here I am, in the most beautiful little town in the world for my trouble.'

Brendan forced himself to smile. 'To Father Jackson,' he said, raising his stout. Niamh followed suit. 'To Father Jackson,' she replied. Assumpta took the opportunity to flee to the other end of the bar, a move which did not go unnoticed by Alex or Brendan.

Alex just prayed his story wouldn't go unheeded.

* * *

Peter leant against the wall of the pub, his stomach doing backflips. It was late. He'd watched from Brendan's car as a large group of people had spilled out of the pub and on to the street, including Padraig and Siobhan. He'd smiled as Siobhan had climbed into her car – she was really starting to show. He'd watched them all disappear down the street before climbing out of the car and heading over to the pub. He was just waiting for Brendan to emerge, and he would go inside. To her.

He swallowed nervously as he felt the panic rise up in his chest.

_If You want this to work, You have to help. I can't do this without You._

He took a deep breath, calming himself down. He needed to stay in control; to calmly and clearly explain. To tell her that he loved her so much it hurt. That he needed her. That he was sorry. That he only asked for her forgiveness, even if she never wanted to see him again.

He turned as he heard the Pub door open. Brendan appeared and gave him a tight smile.

'Good luck.'

Peter took a deep breath. He was ready. 'Thanks, Brendan.'

Brendan watched as Peter walked through the door. For the first time in years, he prayed.

* * *

_Any and all feedback greatly appreciated, especially at this point in the story... *bites nails nervously*_


	36. Chapter 36

Brendan watched as Assumpta put the last of the glasses away.

'All done then?'

'Yeah, thanks,' she said, her voice tired. Brendan eyed her for a second, and sighed.

'I'll get out of your hair, then,' he said, walking over to the door. 'Night.'

'Night,' she called after him, walking down the bar to put the chairs up. She was looking forward to bed; her foot was still sore, and she'd dropped a glass on her hand earlier in the day causing it to ache beyond belief. She gingerly lifted the chair up onto the bench.

'Need a hand?'

Assumpta froze. She started breathing quickly, her heart rate shooting through the roof. She wheeled around, her dark eyes meeting those green ones.

He was here. In Ballykissangel. Standing in her bar. Looking at her.

She stopped, watching him warily, fighting the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. They always did, when it came to him, and she hated it. Anger. Frustration. Hurt. Love.

He held her heart, and as much as she tried to take it back, she knew she would never fully recover. Peter Clifford would always hold a piece of her heart.

She reminded herself of her anger. Her rage at his actions. How he'd wordlessly left her at her most vulnerable, leaving her to wake up to Leo, as if he were some kind of second prize. Some kind of compensation.

'What do you want?' she asked, trying to show the anger in her face, and desperately trying keep her voice under control.

He stared at her. 'You.' The word was out of his mouth before he realised what he was saying.

Her heart rate increased as she slowly began to panic. She'd worked so hard to forget him; to put him out of her mind. To push him slowly out of her heart. To hide his memory so deep she couldn't find it again. But here he was, and his presence was only dragging up those memories.

Peter swallowed and looked at the floor. That was not how it was meant to go. He took a quick breath in, reminding himself of the reason he was here, and looked back up at her, meeting her eyes.

Refocus. Do what you came to do. Nothing more, he thought.

'I didn't get a chance to explain,' he said. 'And I'd like that chance.' She eyed him warily. He could see the panic in her eyes. He'd caught her off guard. He would have to be careful.

He ploughed on, taking advantage of her hesitancy.

'That night, I asked God not to take you away from me. I told Him I'd devote my life to Him if He brought you back to me.' He paused, letting it sink in, and taking a small step toward her. 'And He did. Only, I made a mistake.' He took another small step. He was still half the length of the bar away, but he wanted to be closer. He wanted to reach out and touch her.

If she let him this time.

'I begged God not to take you away, but then I ran.' Another step.

She felt the hot tears biting at her eyes. He _had_ run. He _had_ left her. She struggled to fight the tears with anger; she hated crying in front of him. She wouldn't forgive him. She couldn't.

'The truth is, I was terrified. I was terrified of losing you.'

He concentrated on her beautiful face; her familiar dark eyes, her red lips. It helped him to stay calm. To finish what he wanted to say without losing it. He needed to stay in control. He'd lost control last time – he'd never really had it to begin with – and it had cost him dearly. He wouldn't do that again. He took another step forward, getting closer and closer.

'I hid behind the church, behind my job. I loved you, and it terrified me.'

A single tear fell down her cheek, but she ignored it.

'I never should have left you,' he whispered, unable to stop the tears forming in his own eyes at the sight of hers.

She took a ragged breath in, trying desperately to compose herself.

'If you think you can just walk in here-'

'I don't,' he quickly interrupted before stopping, realising he should let her speak. She stared at him, willing herself to let fly. To rage at him. To make him pay for her hurt.

'I was alone, Peter.' Peter's heart broke at the sound of her pain, barely hidden behind the anger in her voice, but he forced himself to remain calm.

'No, you weren't. I knew you wouldn't be. I knew Niamh and Brendan and Siobhan would look after you,' he said.

'I didn't want them. I wanted you!' she cried, unable to control herself any longer. The hurt and pain she'd tried so hard to bury came rushing to the surface. 'You said you wouldn't let me down, but you left me when I needed you most. You hid behind that stupid uniform, all pious and noble. You never even said goodbye!' she cried. Her face went hard. 'You never loved me,' she whispered, knowing it was anything but the truth, but desperate to keep him out of what was left of her heart before it cracked.

'I left because I loved you!' he cried. 'I left because I thought it was the only thing that would save you!'

She stood, shocked – she'd never heard him really yell before. She'd heard him angry, and she'd heard him raise his voice, but never shouting. And it scared her.

Her mind went back to the priest's story. How he would have given anything to save his wife; even his own life. She closed her eyes, struggling to control her emotions. She couldn't give in. Not now. He'd hurt her too much.

'It nearly killed me to see you lying on that floor. You were dead. I thought I'd lost you forever,' he whispered, his voice breaking. He fought to keep it under control. 'I couldn't lose you.'

She stared at him, the tears falling down her face, her paper-thin resolve crumbling completely. She couldn't push him away any more; she didn't have the strength to fight him any longer. As much as she didn't want to admit it, she didn't want to fight him any longer.

She suddenly realised that if he walked out that door and out of her life again, she didn't think she'd survive.

He looked into her eyes, watching the fight drain out of her, and he started to hope again. Maybe he hadn't lost her after all. Maybe she would forgive him. And maybe, just maybe, she still loved him.

'I love you,' he said, inching closer and closer to her. 'I used to come to the pub just to see your face. Just to hear your voice. It was agony, knowing I could never have you, but I couldn't stay away. And then…I was ready to give up my life for you, Assumpta. I gave up my life for you.'

He stared in to her eyes, his gaze fierce. He could smell blood, she knew. She looked at the ground, unable to maintain his gaze, trying to hide. He took another step forward.

'I still think about you all the time. Night and day. It's different stuff, but it's all the same. I run futsal training, and I'm thinking of you. Wondering what you're doing. I talk to the boys at the centre, and it's you in the back of my mind. Something good happens and all I want to do is tell you. My dreams are you. I haven't slept because of the nightmares – they're always you; your cold, white face lying on that floor.' He drew in a shuddery breath, forcing the pictures that had plagued his dreams for months out of his mind. 'It's always been you. It's only ever been you.'

He was only inches away from her now.

'And then when I thought I'd lost you…' he stopped, looking up at the ceiling, willing himself to continue. 'I would have done anything. Anything at all. Leaving you was easy when faced with…I couldn't…' He stopped, his voice breaking.

She shook her head.

'No…' she whispered, her voice betraying her.

'I'm so, so sorry, Assumpta. I made a mistake. A huge mistake, and I've paid for it every day since. I let you down, and you don't know what that's done to me.' He drew in a careful breath. 'Please forgive me,' he whispered, and she choked out a sob. 'Please, Assumpta,' he whispered urgently. 'I can't go on like this,' he begged. 'Please forgive me.'

He tried desperately to push his emotions down; she didn't want him to stay. He reminded himself of why he'd come – her forgiveness. That was all.

She shook her head, unable to stop crying. For the first time she considered what leaving had done to him; before tonight, she'd only really known her own pain, her own hurt. She suddenly realised what he'd done for her – what he thought he was doing – and just how much it had cost him. The lack of sleep, his gaunt, thin frame, his dull eyes… The pieces of the puzzle suddenly all fit, and the pain of the realisation overwhelmed her.

'I know I don't deserve it, but I can't do this anymore. Please, Assumpta. All I'm asking is that you forgive me, and then I'll go,' he whispered.

She looked up at him and her face crumbled. She fell forward onto him, her forehead resting on his chest, her body shaking with the sobs she couldn't hold back any longer. He closed his eyes and put his arms around her, trying not to think of it as the last time he would ever hold her. She pounded his chest with her fists, the last vestiges of anger pouring out of her.

'I hate you,' she sobbed.

'No, you don't,' he said, kissing her soft, dark hair. He'd noticed when he first saw her that she'd let it grow out; it was long and dark and he loved it. 'God knows I deserve it,' he added.

'I called for you, but you never came,' she sobbed.

'I know, I'm sorry,' he whispered, the tears running down his face freely now.

He held her tightly until she slowly stopped hitting him, her palms eventually resting flat against his chest. He pulled her even tighter, wanting to envelop her, to take away the tears. She slowly stopped crying, pushing herself away from him slightly. He loosened his grip, but his arms wouldn't let her go. She looked up into his red-rimmed eyes, knowing she looked the same.

He stared back down at her, his face serious.

'I thought I was doing the right thing, but I wasn't. Please forgive me.'

After a few breathless moments, she nodded slowly and hesitantly, and a small smile slowly broke out across his face. He reached up and brushed her hair away from her face, and wiped a fresh tear from her cheek.

What was he doing? He swallowed hard, letting her go, dragging his eyes away from hers. He was drowning in her beautiful, dark eyes. He promised himself he wouldn't break her heart, and here he was, doing it all over again. He promised himself he wouldn't stay. He wouldn't ask that of her again. Her forgiveness was miracle enough; he could never ask for more.

'Thank you,' he whispered, holding her soft hand in his fingers. He looked down at it. 'I'll…I'll go now,' he stumbled out, choking on the words. He let her hand go and turned to leave.

'Peter,' she called quietly. He stopped, pausing for a second before turning around. He looked down at her feet; he couldn't bring himself to look into her eyes. It would be the end, he knew, and he couldn't do that to her. Not again.

'Where are you going?' she asked quietly, her voice ragged.

Where was he going?

'I…I only wanted to explain, Assumpta. I couldn't bear the thought that you were here, not understanding…' he trailed off. 'I can only ask for your forgiveness,' he added, finally forcing himself to look at her face.

Her eyes glistened with remains of the tears she'd shed that night. Tears because of him.

'What do you want, Peter?' she asked again, her voice soft but firm. Her question stung; she knew exactly what he wanted. What he'd always wanted. What he'd had for just a few fleeting hours before his world had collapsed around him.

'I think you know what I want,' he said, his shattered voice betraying the hurt he felt. 'I suppose I should be the one asking what you want. What do you want, Assumpta?' he asked, not really considering the implications of such a question. He'd spent so long fighting for control, and he was tired. He looked up at her tear-stained face, her red-rimmed eyes.

'I think you know what I want,' she repeated back at him. He stared at her; she sounded terrified. He frowned for a split second, not understanding…

His heart swelled; he crossed the few steps between them in an instant and gathered her up in his arms, holding her tight. He could feel her bury her face in his shoulder, her soft hair brushing his neck. He never wanted to let her go. He felt his eyes fill with fresh tears, and he squeezed them shut, enjoying the feel of his arms around her.

Eventually, he slowly pulled away, staring into her dark eyes, finally allowing himself to be swallowed up by them.

'I love you,' he whispered. She smiled tentatively up at him, and his heart nearly exploded. He glanced down at her lips. His face grew serious.

'I'd like to kiss you, if that's ok,' he said quietly, putting his hands on either side of her face. He leant forward slowly, waiting for her to protest, but praying she didn't. He closed his eyes, his forehead touching hers.

'Assumpta,' he whispered, before slowly closing the gap between their lips. He kissed her gently, softly, his lips barely touching hers, terrified she'd pull away. She didn't, and he hesitantly kissed her again, his lips caressing hers. She responded, gently kissing him back. It was all he needed; he kissed her again, more fully this time. Each kiss built upon the one before; he kissed her slowly, deeply. Her hands, hands that had been resting on his chest, slowly slid up and buried themselves in his hair; his one hand still at her neck, the other at her waist, pulled her closer to him.

He slowly pulled away, breathless, his face serious, looking into her eyes. 'I love you, Assumpta Fitzgerald.' She gave him a small smile and looked down, his gaze too intense. She rested her head on his chest, and he held her tight, his head resting on the top of hers.

The clock on the mantle chimed eleven. Peter leant back slightly, and Assumpta looked up at him.

'So, need a hand?' he asked.

* * *

_I felt bad just leaving you hanging. That's what reviews will do to you, I guess! __The moment you've all been waiting for. I hope it lives up to expectations..._

_Let me know what you think, please - all feedback - including criticism - is greatly appreciated and will go towards future stories._

_For those of you interested, there is still more to come. Just because our favourite couple have declared their undying love (heh!) doesn't mean things are going to go swimmingly...there's still a Community Centre in Manchester to sort out, and the rest of Ballyk..._


	37. Chapter 37

Peter smiled as Assumpta chuckled. Her laughter was like music to his ears; he never thought he'd hear it again.

'I can't wait to see the look on Brendan's face,' she said.

'Ah, I think I'll keep him in suspense for a little while,' Peter joked. 'It's not like he's done anything to help or anything.'

Assumpta grinned wryly at him, and he couldn't help but grin back. He couldn't believe he was here, with her. Sitting on the floor of her pub, laughing with her. He couldn't believe she'd forgiven him. That she still loved him, despite everything he'd done. He stared at her in wonder, a silly smile playing across his face. She looked up at him, frowning for a second when she noticed his expression; it was the same goofy smile he'd been wearing that night, the last time she saw him before the accident.

'What?' she asked.

'Oh, nothing,' he said, nonchalantly. 'Just in awe of your beauty,' he said. She shook her head and mock-pushed him. She wasn't like some of the other women she knew; in the face of such open adoration, she felt distinctly uncomfortable.

'Ah, well, you didn't make it easy,' she countered.

'I know,' he said, his face grave. 'Well, it was your fault,' he said, his tone changing, feigning innocence.

'My fault?' she cried, amused.

'Well, if you'd had your wiring fixed like I told you to, we would never have gotten into this mess now, would we?' he said.

'Oh!' she cried as she pushed him over. He chuckled at her indignance. 'Well, you'll be pleased to know it's all fixed,' she replied. 'And I'm still paying it off,' she muttered, fiddling with her skirt. He noticed her left hand; he'd never really had a chance to find out the extent of her injuries. He'd just been satisfied with life. He took her hand in his, gently stroking the lightly-scarred skin. She watched as he traced the outline of the scar with his fingers.

'I've got another on my foot if you're interested,' she half-joked, before dropping her eyes. Talking about the accident still hurt, even if it was with him. 'They're nothing compared to my heart. Medication costs the earth.'

'I'm sorry,' he said quietly, gently rubbing her hand.

'It's not your fault,' she said, not meeting his gaze.

'I should have been there. I should have…I will regret leaving you every day of my life,' he said, his voice heavy. She looked up at him, her eyes wary.

'Just promise you'll never do it again,' she whispered. He stared into her dark eyes, eyes that were filled with fear. He leant forward and put his hands on either side of her face.

'I promise,' he said quietly, his eyes not leaving hers. 'No matter what.'

She gave him a quick smile, before dropping her eyes. He put his hands around her waist, pulling her closer to him, their legs entwined.

'I promise,' he repeated, and she nodded. He put his finger under her chin, lifting her face. A single unbidden tear slipped down her cheek. He wiped it away with his thumb.

'I love you, Assumpta Fitzgerald. I meant what I said that day: I can't live without you. I never want to live without you,' he said quietly, before slowly lowering his head to kiss her gently.

* * *

Her head spun as his lips closed in on hers again. She was exhausted in every way, but she didn't want to fall asleep, just in case this was all a dream. She would never get used to that. She never wanted to.

He pulled away from the kiss, sighing deeply.

'You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that,' he admitted shyly, as if it were still an offence of some kind. She smiled coyly.

'Yeah,' she replied, refusing to admit how long she'd wanted him to do that. She rested her head on his shoulder. She reached out and picked up his right hand, looking at it closely. She'd thought it looked discoloured earlier, but had decided it was the light. Now she could see clearly, and she realised his right hand was one giant, slightly swollen, black and purple bruise. She frowned.

'What did you do, punch someone?'

Peter snorted. 'Me? Punch someone?'

'Ah, I don't know. I've seen you pretty angry with Father Mac before,' she joked, her face souring slightly at the memory of her last encounter with Father Mac.

'Not someone,' he replied. 'A brick wall,' he admitted under her questioning gaze. She looked at him, horrified.

'What for?' she cried.

'Well, I was angry,' he said, frowning.

'No kidding! This looks terrible, Peter.' She gently turned his hand around, getting a good look at it in the firelight. 'When did you do this?'

'About a month ago now,' he said. 'Cast came off last week.' He regretted that last part when her head spun around to stare at him.

'You broke your hand?' she cried, horrified. 'Peter!'

'I…was really angry,' he eventually offered, not really able to give her much more of an explanation. 'I wasn't coping very well,' he admitted. She looked up at him, understanding. 'But I think I'll be fine, now,' he said quietly. She smiled coyly, ducking his gaze. She rested her head back on his shoulder, trying hard but failing to suppress a yawn. He looked at her, amused for a moment, before looking at his watch.

'Geez, it's almost midnight,' he said, shocked. 'I told Brendan I'd be back by now…' he trailed off. She raised her eyebrows at him.

'Ah, so I really do have Brendan to blame, do I?' He grinned as he stood up, pulling her up with him.

'Yeah, but go easy on him. I think he's a big softie at heart,' Peter said jokingly, putting his hands on her arms. His face grew serious. 'I should go,' he said. She looked down, disappointed, but knowing he was right.

'Yeah. I've got to be up early in the morning,' she replied. She suddenly looked up at him, her question unspoken. Peter frowned, looking past her.

'I have the red-eye back to Manchester tomorrow night,' he said, the disappointment evident in his voice. She sighed.

'This isn't going to be easy, is it,' she stated more than asked, her voice heavy.

'It never is.' He put his finger under her chin, pulling her face up to him. 'Can I see you tomorrow?' he asked carefully, his eyes suddenly uncertain. She raised her eyebrows at him in a combination of amusement and indignance.

'You'd better or you might find I don't let you in next time,' she said.

'You didn't let me in this time,' a playful look on his face.

'Ah, yeah. Another thing to blame Brendan for,' she joked, before turning serious. 'I don't think you should just waltz into the bar,' she said carefully. He nodded.

'No, I think it's probably a little early for that,' he agreed, frowning. He suddenly smiled. 'I've an idea. Just stay by your phone tomorrow.'

She eyed him, curious, remembering the last time he'd called her. She smiled at the memory.

'I think I can do that.'

* * *

'You're awfully cheery this morning,' Niamh commented. Assumpta's head shot up. 'You were humming,' Niamh said, raising her eyebrows knowingly. Assumpta swallowed and looked back down; she hadn't even noticed. 'What's up?'

Assumpta looked over at Niamh. 'Nothing,' she spluttered out, shaking her head briefly, before heading for the kitchen. She leant against the table, giving herself a stern talking to about wearing hearts on sleeves. That was Peter's job, not hers; but then she never could hide anything when it came to him. Brendan had confirmed as much the previous night.

Niamh watched her as she went, frowning. Something was up. She looked down the bar at the regulars. Deciding they were fine, she turned and walked into the kitchen.

'All right, spill,' Niamh said conspiratorially. Assumpta plastered her face with her best confused and ignorant look.

'What?'

Niamh's eyes narrowed. 'You've been nothing but Oscar the Grouch for weeks and now all of a sudden you're humming Christmas carols.'

Assumpta stared back at her for a few seconds, before giving up. She was too tired for this, and Niamh would have to find out soon enough anyway. Besides, as much as she didn't want to admit it, she was desperate to talk to someone about him. About them.

Niamh watched her friend, her expression turning to triumphant; she knew she'd won.

'All right, then,' Assumpta whispered loudly, turning to shut the kitchen door. Niamh sat down excitedly. Assumpta eyed her. 'You can't tell Ambrose.'

Niamh looked at her as if she were stupid. 'Of course I'm going to tell Ambrose,' she scoffed. Assumpta sighed.

'Fine, but no one else.'

She tried to look angry, but she couldn't stop the giant smile that spread across her face.

* * *

Padraig jumped about two feet in the air as a woman screamed. He jumped off his stool and raced around to the kitchen door, throwing it open. Brendan was right behind him.

'What's going on?' he cried. He looked at the two women, one with a huge grin on her face, the other burying her head in her hands.

'Nothing, nothing, sorry,' Niamh said, waving them away, not taking her eyes off the top of Assumpta's head.

'Geez, scared us half to death,' he muttered, turning and walking back down the bar. 'I'll just keep an eye on the bar then, shall I?'

Assumpta looked up as Brendan shot her a knowing look. She shot him an uncomplimentary one in return, and he grinned. He pulled the door shut, his tongue in his cheek, trying desperately not to smile.

* * *

Assumpta raced down the bar towards the shrill cry of the phone. 'Fitzgerald's,' she answered, breathlessly.

'It's been twelve hours, four minutes and six – no, seven – seconds since I last saw you,' a voice said at the other end. 'And that's far too long.' For what felt like the millionth time that day, Assumpta couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face.

'So you're counting now?'

'You bet.'

'And what are you going to do about it?' she asked coyly.

'See that man standing down the end of the bar in the brown coat?'

She turned to see Brendan eyeing her smugly. She shot him a look back. 'Yes.'

'He has his instructions. Just tell him you're going for some air.'

She almost laughed. 'Going for some air?'

'I reliable source tells me you've been doing that a lot lately.'

She frowned and nodded. 'I suppose. And where can I find this 'air'?' she asked.

'Head for St Joseph's,' he said. She shook her head, smiling wryly.

'Trust you,' she muttered.

* * *

_Nope, it's not over yet! There is still quite a lot for our two favourite characters to sort out yet..._

_Any and all feedback greatly appreciated. _


	38. Chapter 38

Peter sat in Brendan's car, a cap on his head. He'd grabbed it at the last minute at Mark's suggestion, and he was glad for it. He had forgotten how active the people of Ballyk could be. He ducked his head every time someone walked past, which felt like every few seconds, but the last thing he wanted was a painful encounter with a scorned ex-parishioner.

He couldn't deny that under all the subterfuge and hiding, it felt good to be back in Ballyk. He wasn't sure if he was kidding himself, but he thought the air smelt sweeter. He loved his first home; he was English through and through. But everything was so green compared to the concrete and steel of industrial Manchester. The sun was shining brightly, despite the distinct chill in the air. Just the way he liked it.

He looked in the rear-vision mirror for what felt like the hundredth time, each time disappointed when he didn't see her walking towards him.

He was still pinching himself after last night. It was as if he were in a dream; the woman he loved - the woman he'd almost lost, in more ways than on - loved him, despite everything. He'd actually, finally, kissed her; something he'd wanted to do for far too long. He smiled to himself at the thought.

He looked up in the rear-vision mirror again and grinned. There she was.

She'd seen Brendan's car, and was smiling wryly. She walked up to the passenger side of the car and leant in the window.

'You know, this isn't going to work out if you keep racing back here,' she said jokingly, poking her thumb at the church.

'Ha, ha.'

'So, is this the 'air' I'm looking for?' she asked, leaning on the car door.

'Nope,' he replied. 'That is still a little way off.' He smiled. 'Get in.'

* * *

Peter turned off the ignition, and Assumpta chuckled dryly when she realised where they were. Peter shrugged.

'People don't come here often,' he said, justifying his choice. She got out of the car and walked up the little hill to the grotto, where the statue of the Mother Mary sat.

She turned to face him, a wry smile on her face. 'You would,' she said, shaking her head. He grinned at her and held his arms wide.

'I am what I am,' he said, a grin on his face.

'And what is that?' she asked. He took a few steps forward, closing the gap between them.

'Not a priest,' he said quietly, gazing intently into her dark eyes. She held his gaze for a few moments, before dropping it, shy.

'What does that mean?' she asked, not looking at him.

'It means I love you,' he said quietly, putting his hand gently against her face. She looked up at him, her face worried.

'How is this going to work, Peter?' she asked. 'You're all set up in Manchester now.' He dropped her gaze, his hand dropping to her waist. He'd spent most of his still-sleepless night considering this. Leaving her long-term was impossible, but he didn't want to let the boys down – the community down – not after what they'd just been through. He owed them more than that.

'I don't know,' he admitted, letting her go. She sat down on the soft grass under the shade of a large tree. He sat down beside her, staring out across the landscape. He sighed heavily. 'I really made a mess of things, didn't I?' he said, his voice heavy.

'Yeah, you did,' she said after a few moments, shaking her head. He turned to look at her, and she grinned at him. He smiled and shook his head.

'I suppose we should start telling people around here too,' he added. 'Well, that is if I'm going to keep dropping in,' he said, looking at her, an air of uncertainty of about him she found slightly disconcerting.

'Do you want to?' she asked, frowning.

'More than anything.'

'Good,' she said quietly, but Peter thought he detected a distinct air of smugness.

'I was actually kinda hoping to eventually make it a more permanent move, if that suits you,' he ventured carefully, the uncertainty he'd shown earlier now full-blown – and poorly masked – fear.

'Ah, I don't know. I've kinda got the help I need around the bar at the moment,' she said, feigning seriousness. Peter frowned, recognising that tone of voice.

'Oh, really? In Brendan, who's currently working two jobs, and Niamh, whose husband would drag her kicking and screaming from your bar if he thought you could even vaguely cope without her?'

She laughed lightly. 'Yeah, alright. I guess I'll need that hand around the bar,' she joked, and he grinned at her. 'Ah, well, Niamh knows,' she said.

'Ah.'

'Apparently, I was humming Christmas carols this morning,' she said, blushing, and Peter chuckled, his turn to feel slightly smug.

'I have that effect on people, you know,' he said, a mock-serious look on his face, but secretly rather pleased with himself. Assumpta Fitzgerald did not hum Christmas carols. She grinned wryly at him.

'Yeah, well, I hope it lasts. There are going to be some people who aren't as forgiving as I am,' she said, her voice turning grave. Peter nodded. He knew the battle he'd just won was the toughest, and the most rewarding, but he still had a huge battle ahead of him – convincing the rest of Ballyk to forgive him. They had a lot less to lose than Assumpta had, even if their hurt wasn't quite as deep.

They sat in silence for a while, both pondering the seemingly insurmountable obstacles that lay before them.

'I suppose I should start soon,' he muttered, and Assumpta frowned at him. 'Well, if you're going to continue humming Christmas Carols in November,' he said, laughing at her look of indignantion. She swiped at his arm, and he laughed even more.

'It's easy for you. You get to run away,' she said, not looking at him. He reached out and took her hand.

'Easy? Leaving you?' he said incredulously. She looked up at him.

'When do you think you'll be back?' She knew how tough it was on him; she couldn't really afford more time away from the bar after the accident, and while flights across the Irish Sea weren't really expensive, neither of them had a lot of time or cash to spare.

'I don't know,' he said, shaking his head. 'The centre closes Sunday mornings and Mondays, but I can't keep asking Sam to cover for me. He's busy enough.'

'Sam?' Assumpta asked. Peter realised he told her virtually nothing about the centre or his life in Manchester.

'Another person you have to thank,' he replied. Assumpta nodded, she too realising she knew nothing of his life back in England. 'You'll have to meet him,' he said, his mind elsewhere. She resolved to ask him more about it later.

She looked at her watch. 'I need to get back, Peter,' she said hesitantly. He turned to look at her, the unhappy look on her face mirroring his.

'Yeah,' he said. He took her scarred left hand in his still sore right hand. 'We'll work it out,' he said earnestly, as much trying to convince himself as well as her. She looked up at him.

'Yeah,' she replied. 'I know.' He looked out across the green hills, each covered in trees of every shade of green. As much as he missed the centre and the boys, he knew this was his home.

He looked at his watch. He still had several hours before he needed to be at the airport. He put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him. She rested her head on his shoulder, more content than she had been in months. Peter kissed her hair, rubbing her upper arm with his thumb.

'What are you going to do for the rest of the day?' she asked, covering a yawn at the end of her question.

'I suppose I should start visiting people,' he said, 'if that's ok with you.' She sat up and looked at him, frowning at the hesitancy and vulnerability in his voice.

'Peter, I'd rather you spent the rest of your evening drinking in my bar with Brendan and Padraig for the world to see,' she said, rather forcefully. She realised as an afterthought that was not actually what she would rather he be doing, but she banished that thought as quickly as it came.

He smiled shyly and nodded, understanding her point, but the uncertainty on his face was not completely gone. She leant forwards and kissed him gently, catching him by surprise. He responded after a second, kissing her back, but she pulled away slowly, judging his reaction. His eyes remained closed, and he sighed a little. She smiled; point made.

He opened his eyes to look at her, smiling at the almost smug smile that graced her beautiful face.

'I think I know who I'll start with.'

* * *

Peter sat in the wintery darkness, watching as the last car pulled away from the front of the surgery. He pulled the cap firmly down on his head, and got out of the car, zipping up his jacket against the cold winter wind that blew across the mountain. He put his head down and headed for the door, pushing it open. The receptionist's desk was empty; he'd made sure she was in the last car to leave. Rumours spread like wildfire in a small town like Ballyk, and he didn't want to dishonour an important few by having them find out second-hand.

He looked up as Michael came out of his office. 'We're closed,' he started staying, but stopped when he saw his nervous visitor.

'Peter!' he said, his eyes wide. He grinned and stuck out his hand. 'It's good to see you,' he said, shaking Peter's hand.

'Hi Michael,' Peter replied, smiling back. 'Have you got a minute?'

* * *

Michael sat, staring at the man sitting next to him. Peter shook his head.

'I can't tell you any more than that,' he said resignedly.

Michael sighed, pondering what Peter had just told him. 'I would have sworn she was dead on that floor,' he said, shaking his head in wonder.

'She was, Michael. Even the medicos said she was.' Peter drew in a long breath. It was still a difficult story to tell, even after so long. Riding in the back of the Ambulance with the apparently dead body of the woman he loved was not something that was going to leave him quickly, if ever.

'She received enough of a shock to kill a couple of horses, Peter,' he said quietly. Peter nodded.

'I know. I figured,' he added. He turned to the doctor. 'How is she?' he asked, his voice quiet. Michael frowned.

'She was in hospital for three months. Her heart is…still quite bad.'

Peter knew; Assumpta had told him she was still on medication, but he hadn't pressed her for details. Yet. 'How bad, Michael?' Michael sighed.

'Well, she won't be running any marathons anytime soon. If ever,' he said, turning back to Peter. 'Have you seen her?' Michael asked tentatively.

Peter couldn't stop himself from smiling. 'Yeah.'

Michael looked at him quizzically, but didn't say anything else, not quite sure where the too-personal boundary lay. 'We've kinda worked it out,' Peter replied, still smiling. He turned to look at the Doctor. 'That's why I'm here, Michael. I made a…mistake. Misinformed,' he said, not really sure how to explain to the doctor what had happened. He realised he really had no idea how to tell people whatsoever. That was something he was going to have to rectify. People were going to want an explanation, and he knew they deserved one.

The doctor took a second to figure out what Peter meant before smiling himself. 'I'm glad, Peter. I really am,' Michael said.

'Thanks, Michael.'

Michael watched Peter carefully, noting the same about his physical appearance that Brendan had.

'Peter, if you don't mind me saying, you don't look so great yourself,' Michael commented. Peter nodded.

'Yeah, I know.' He sighed. 'The last few months haven't been easy.'

'You've lost a lot of weight, Peter.'

'I'm much fitter than I was,' Peter offered.

'Ah, yes, the futsal team.' Michael pointed to Peter's hand, the colour of which hadn't gone unnoticed. 'But that's not a futsal injury.'

Peter wiggled the fingers on his right hand. It was still quite sore, especially the knuckle on his middle finger, which he suspected had taken the brunt of his anger.

'Like I said, not easy,' he said, after explaining the injury to the doctor, who had cringed when the words brick wall and fist were mentioned in the same sentence.

'You're lucky you've still got movement,' he said.

'That's debateable,' Peter replied. 'It's still sore, and I don't even think of making a fist,' he said.

'Let me have a look,' Michael said, and Peter offered up his hand.

'Well, the bruising will take several months to go down,' he said, after a few seconds' inspection.

'Several months?' Peter exclaimed. He was hoping for weeks.

'Fists and walls really don't go together well, Peter,' Michael said admonishingly. Peter frowned. 'Make sure you get it seen to if you still haven't got full range of motion back in three months.'

'Three months,' Peter repeated wearily.

'So, what are your plans?' Michael asked. Peter frowned.

'I'm not sure, yet. Eventually to move back here, but I don't really want to desert the centre now. It's too soon,' he said.

'Ah,' Michael said, understanding. 'Well, if you need somewhere to stay, you can always stay here,' he offered. 'I assume you're not staying at Fitzgerald's,' Michael stated more than asked. Peter shook his head quickly.

'No, I don't think that would be too wise,' Peter agreed. Not until he had successfully completed one very important task.

* * *

_If you can guess what the task is, then you might want to stick around... ;)_

_Any and all feedback greatly appreciated!_


	39. Chapter 39

Peter looked up and down the street as he got out of the car. It was well and truly dark now, despite being fairly early in the evening. He pulled his jacket tight around him against the cold winter wind that swept down the main street of the little town. No one was around, although he could hear the laughter and clinking of glasses from the bar just metres away. Looking over at Fitzgerald's he had a sudden flash of desire to race in there and kiss the beautiful publican in front of everyone; then at least he wouldn't feel like a criminal, looking behind him as he walked down the street. The urge passed as quickly as it came, and he sighed, resigning himself to seeing her in a few hours for just a few minutes, on a cold, dark road. Anything was better than nothing, he told himself. Better than the nothing he'd had only 24 hours earlier.

He crossed the dark street to the familiar white house of the Garda. He wondered if Ambrose would be home yet; Assumpta had arranged for Niamh to come in later in the evening so Peter could call in.

He took in a long breath; as much as he loved the small town and its people, Niamh was going to be a challenge. She was fiercely loyal, and from her perspective, Peter knew, he'd walked out on her friend when she needed him most, an almost unforgiveable sin in Niamh's eyes. If there was one encounter – besides Assumpta, but she didn't count – he was dreading, it was this one.

He realised with a jolt that he'd committed one other unforgiveable sin: he'd left before Kieran's christening. He grimaced. He had promised, with great delight, and with a tinge of honour, to do the christening. It'd been scheduled for just a few days after the accident, but they'd probably moved it, he assumed. Adding that to his already long list of mistakes, and this was going to be a very bumpy ride.

He wondered vaguely if Niamh would ever forgive him for missing Kieran's christening. _Father Mac would have done it_, he thought.

Nope, Niamh was _never_ going to forgive him.

He steeled himself and knocked on the navy blue door. He heard Niamh yell that she was coming, and a few moments later the door opened, revealing Niamh, holding Kieran.

She looked shocked for a few moments, and then she set her mouth in hard line. Peter inwardly groaned.

'Hi Niamh,' he offered, putting on his best contrite smile. She gave a small sigh, not taking her eyes off him. He shuffled awkwardly under her gaze.

'Ah, you'd better come in,' she said eventually, pulling the door back for Peter to enter. 'You'll catch a death of cold out there.'

Peter walked through the door, waiting for Niamh to shut it. She walked past him and downstairs to the kitchen. Peter followed.

'Have you eaten?' she asked roughly, turning to face him.

'Ah, yeah, thanks,' Peter replied, the contrite smile returning. He realised the cap he'd been wearing most of the day was still firmly attached to his head. He pulled it off, running his hand through his short hair. 'I'm sorry I interrupted. I won't stay long,' he said, waving at the kitchen, realising he'd interrupted Kieran's dinnertime. He sighed. 'I just came to apologise.'

Niamh eyed him, still holding a blissfully ignorant – but considerably larger than Peter remembered – Kieran.

'I'm sorry for leaving without explaining. And I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye,' he said, his voice heavy. He looked up at her. She was staring at him, her face hard. This wasn't going to be easy, he thought.

Niamh studied the man in front of her. He was only a few years older than her, but he looked twice his age at that moment. His eyes still had that spark about them despite the black rings, she noticed. Something a certain publican might have had something to do with, she suspected.

But, as must as she was angry, she felt sorry for the ex-priest. Assumpta had explained as best she could that morning why he'd left, a story Niamh had listened to with bated breath. She'd waited so long for an explanation of why the young priest had suddenly fled the town without a word of goodbye, and she finally had it…albeit, not quite the explanation she'd imagined. Not that she'd managed to imagine much that had made any sense.

But still. She'd trusted him, and he'd let her down. Let them all down.

'Why didn't you say goodbye?' she asked, her face softening slightly. Peter sat on the chair behind him, sighing heavily.

'I don't know,' he admitted. 'I was a mess…It was too hard,' he finally admitted. 'It was selfish of me, I know.'

Niamh sighed. He had been a mess. She remembered that night very clearly; she would never forget it. And not only for Assumpta, but also for the young priest who had refused to allow her to die.

'Yes, it was,' she said, her voice hard. He looked up at her, the sadness and self-doubt he felt etched on his face. Her face softened. 'But I forgive you,' she said, sitting down opposite him, putting Kieran on her lap.

Peter smiled at her. 'Thank you,' he said, and he meant it. She smiled back.

He smiled ruefully. 'I guess I didn't think anyone would believe me either,' he admitted quietly, not looking at her.

She considered his words. His story sounded crazy, if you didn't believe in God. But no one could deny what had taken place that night; Assumpta had been dead – three people with medical degrees had confirmed it – and then she wasn't. She'd had no trouble believing him, but she could see how others might.

'I believe you,' she said. He smiled at her.

'Thank you,' he said. He sighed. 'Now for the other few hundred,' he joked, but there wasn't much humour in his voice.

'You'll get there. The people of this town have long memories, but most of those memories are good ones,' she said. He didn't reply. He looked over at Kieran, gently poking his little chest.

'He's so big,' he said, his voice a mixture of wonder and regret. He'd missed so much, and it hurt.

The little boy had been watching him since he'd arrived, and now stuck out his arms, leaning over to Peter. Peter's heart swelled and he automatically put his arms out to take him. Niamh happily gave him up, amused and surprised at her son's reaction.

'He remembers you,' she said, smiling. Peter held the little boy in front of him, his little feet resting on Peter's knees. 'He always did like you,' she added. 'Although his Mummy was pretty cranky when you missed his christening,' she added, raising an eyebrow at him. Peter looked at her, his face suddenly gloomy.

'And that is one of my big regrets,' he said, looking at the little boy, who was now happily playing with the collar of Peter's jacket. 'I'm sorry, Niamh. I really am sorry.'

'I know,' she said. She looked up at him, happily playing with Kieran. 'What now?' she asked hesitantly. Peter sighed.

'I don't know, Niamh,' he said, his voice heavy. 'It's not going to be easy.' She sighed inwardly; she knew things weren't going to fix themselves overnight, no matter how much she hoped they would. 'I've still got the community centre back in Manchester,' he said, and she nodded, remembering the article in the paper.

'Well, if you need a place to stay while you're here,' she said, and he smiled.

'Thanks, Niamh. I might just take you up on that,' he warned, handing Kieran back. She smiled.

'Well, I might just get you to do some babysitting while you're here, considering you haven't lost any favour with him,' she joked, and Peter grinned. His mind went back to the last time he'd babysat for Ambrose and Niamh…he shook away the memory. He didn't need memories of his lips on Assumpta's soft neck right at the moment…

'You know,' he said smiling, 'that wouldn't be so bad.'

* * *

Peter tossed his jumper into his bag and zipped it up, his heart heavy. He'd arranged to meet Assumpta on the Dublin road with Brendan, with Niamh minding the bar, but he dreaded the meeting. He didn't know when he'd see her again, and that stung. He couldn't ask Sam to mind the centre too often, and it cost too much to come across too regularly. He sighed. He hadn't really given the future much thought before he'd landed in Ballyk; he'd been so focussed on her. Deep down, he'd always hoped that she'd take him back, but it was a hope he'd buried. He hadn't dared consider it, but he didn't want to consider a future without her. He'd been stuck in a kind of no-man's land, not daring to think further ahead than his trip to Ballyk.

He'd been ok when he'd had the centre to fight for; it had given him a discernible goal, something to look forward to. But then their hard work had paid off; they'd won, and Peter was left with very little to keep his mind occupied. Now he had more than enough, and it was all her. Another battle had been won; the most important of his life to date. But he had no idea what to do about the centre, and it was beginning to frustrate him. And with Assumpta not around…

He grabbed his bag and headed for Brendan's car.

* * *

Assumpta pulled onto a small gravelly patch just off the road and turned off the engine.

'So Peter says I have you to thank,' she said to her passenger. Brendan snorted.

'I didn't do much,' he said. 'I just answered the phone.'

'So much for not talking to him about me,' she muttered, mock-angrily. Brendan smiled.

'And aren't you glad I didn't listen to you?'

'Since when do you ever listen to me?' she retorted, and he chuckled. 'Seriously,' she said quietly a few minutes later. 'Thanks. For everything.'

Brendan nodded. 'You know you're welcome.' He paused. 'Besides, you were becoming a real pain in the ass,' he added, and Assumpta rolled her eyes.

'Are you sure you're ok to close up the bar?' she asked again. It was Brendan's turn to roll his eyes.

'Stop asking or I'll say no,' he replied. Assumpta grimaced and shut her mouth.

* * *

He spotted Assumpta's van pulled over on a dirt patch on the side of the road, and pulled in next to it, shutting the engine off and getting out. He smiled when he saw her get out of the van, a smile tempered with sadness. He didn't want to say good bye.

He tossed Brendan the keys as he walked over to Assumpta. Brendan walked around to the driver's side. 'I'll see you later, then,' he said, his face blank. Peter frowned, confused. Brendan tilted his head at Assumpta. 'She's gonna take you,' he said, smiling at Peter before getting in the car. A grin erupted on Peter's face and he turned to Assumpta.

'Called in my last favour,' she said, a smile playing across her face. 'Well, actually, he offered,' she said.

'I owe Brendan a beer,' Peter replied.

'I owe him a lot more than a beer,' she muttered. 'Come on, it's freezing out here.'

* * *

Peter threw his bag over his shoulder as they walked through the car park of Cilldargan Airport. Neither of them wanted to say anything, both prolonging the inevitable.

Peter grabbed Assumpta's hand as they walked through the entrance to the airport. She looked up at him in surprise, a look he didn't return, but she didn't pull away. She gave a small smile, enjoying the feel of his large hand wrapped around her smaller one.

They walked in silence, going through the checkpoints until they reached his gate. They stopped, and Peter dropped his bag. He looked at his boarding time; he still had a few minutes. He turned to Assumpta, taking her hands in his, his face sombre. He looked into her eyes, her uncertainty mirroring his. He wanted to say something, anything, to make her smile, but everything he thought of just sounded flat. He looked past her head at the people walking past.

'I'll come back as soon as I can,' he said softly.

She nodded, looking down at his chest, not wanting him to see her sadness. He pulled her into a hug, a hug she willingly accepted, squeezing her eyes so the tears would stop. She hated that she always fell to pieces with him; every emotion seemed to be exaggerated. She had never cried so much in her life than in the last few months, and it was all because of him.

He rested his head on the top of hers, kissing her dark hair. He had just won her back, and now he had to let her go. Again. It all felt so unfair.

He closed his eyes as he heard the boarding call for his flight, squeezing her tighter. He eventually let her go. He looked down at her face, noticing a tear stain down her cheek. His heart broke, and he hugged her tightly again.

'I'll call. Every night. And I'll come back soon. I just have to figure something out,' he said quietly, his voice desperate. He couldn't stand to see her cry. He pulled back, and she smiled at him.

'You'd better go,' she said, letting him go, trying to collect herself. She hated crying.

He wiped the fresh tear from her cheek. She looked up at him, and he leant down and kissed her. She stepped forward, kissing him back, willing time to stop so he wouldn't have to leave.

He eventually broke away, resting his forehead on hers. 'We'll figure this out. I promise,' he said, his hands on her neck. She put her hands up on his shoulders, her eyes closed.

He sighed as he heard the final boarding call for his flight, cursing under his breath. She pulled back, and looked at him, amused.

'Peter Clifford, I didn't even know you knew such language,' she said.

'There's a lot you don't know about me,' he replied, returning her sly smile. He pulled her into a tight hug, and she buried her face in his neck.

'I can't wait to find out,' she said, and he grinned.

* * *

_I apologise for the rather large gap in time between chapters - surprise holiday with the husband. Lovely, but no internet!_

_I am back at work on Monday, so the chapters may not appear quite as regularly as they have been. Sorry!_

_Any and all feedback is very much appreciated._


	40. Chapter 40

Peter walked through the doors of Manchester Airport, the icy winter wind biting at his skin. His heart was lighter than it had been in months, but he'd spent most of the short flight back trying to figure out a plan. Something that would let him return to Ballykissangel, but something that didn't let the people who had invested so much in the community centre down. So far, he hadn't come up with much. Nothing that sounded feasible to him, at least.

'Peter!' a familiar voice called. He turned to see Mark heading his way, a cautious smile on his face. Peter smiled wearily back, hugging his older brother.

'So?' Mark asked, his face earnest. Peter knew he looked tired; despite the happy ending, he'd barely slept. He was too excited to sleep the first night – and too consumed with this newest problem – and his second night was almost over. He stuck his tongue in his cheek, trying not to grin like an idiot, which he knew he would do if he let himself.

'Know anyone who wants to run a community centre?' he asked. Mark's eyes widened and he grinned, a grin Peter couldn't help returning almost instantly. Mark cheered and grabbed Peter for a hug, a hug Peter gladly returned.

'I knew it'd work out,' Mark said, still grinning. 'Wait till Sam hears,' he added. Peter grinned at the thought.

'Well, he'll find out soon enough,' Peter said, looking at his watch. 'The centre opens in six hours.'

* * *

Peter took his familiar place on the community centre steps, coffee in hand. He'd slept fitfully, his dreams mostly gone, but his mind refusing to shut down. The centre wasn't due to open for another ten minutes, giving Peter time to enjoy his coffee in the crisp morning air.

He knew Sam would be along soon; he had to give Mass at nine, but then he was relatively free for a couple of hours. Peter looked at his watch. He probably had about five minutes.

He looked out over the now familiar street. No matter how much he was desperate to return to Assumpta and Ballykissangel, he loved Manchester. He'd grown up here, and despite the rough time he'd had over the last months, he'd grown attached to the centre, and the boys. It was going to be hard to leave them; even harder for them to understand why he was leaving.

He might not have to tell them for a while yet, he thought cynically. He still had no idea how he was going to do this.

Well done again, he thought to himself bitterly.

He looked up to see Sam walking down the street. Peter looked at his watch. Yup, right on time.

'Peter! Good morning,' he said happily.

'Good morning, Sam,' Peter replied dolefully, sipping his coffee. Sam sat down next to him on the steps. They sat in silence for a few minutes, before Sam spoke.

'I'll miss you, I'll admit,' he said. Peter turned to look at him, frowning.

'Where do you think I'm going?' he asked, more astonished at how the priest knew, more than anything else.

'Peter, I've been around for a long time,' he said, reminding Peter briefly of Father Mac. 'Besides, you don't look like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders _quite_ so much anymore,' he added. Peter shook his head, disbelieving. 'Well done, Peter,' Sam said quietly, patting him on the back.

'I don't think it was all me,' Peter admitted. 'I definitely had a bit of help…a lot of help,' he corrected himself. Sam nodded.

'Sometimes I think God is a hopeless romantic,' Sam said. 'Not a theologically sound statement, but when He wants two people together…' he trailed off. 'Well, He is a God of love, is He not?'

Peter chuckled. 'Yes, He is.' Peter had spent a great deal of time in prayer of late, mostly thankful prayers, prayers of apology, prayers requesting help not to stuff it all up, but the heaviest prayer was always the hardest – how to have both worlds. Because that was what he wanted the most. Both worlds. Somehow.

'I don't know what to do, Sam,' he said, shaking his head. 'Again,' he added, almost resentfully. It was his constant adage; he felt like he could do nothing on his own. He was constantly relying on others for help; Sam, Mark, even Brendan. Even the boys had saved him, in a measure, albeit unwittingly.

'You know, Peter, for someone so smart, you can be a little slow at times,' Sam said, frowning at him, but clearly amused. Peter returned the frown, without the amusement. Sam looked back down the street. 'When do _we_ ever know what to do?' Peter stared at the priest for a few moments, mulling his words over in his mind.

He realised fairly quickly what Sam was getting at. He smiled humourlessly. He reflected on his life over the last few years; moving to Ballykissangel was not a decision he'd made, but one that had come from on high, actually and metaphorically, he mused. Falling in love with Assumpta certainly hadn't been on the agenda, but it had happened, as much as he'd fought it. Moving to Manchester had been his idea, and it had worked out fairly well in practical terms – look what he'd achieved with the centre – but it had been a living hell, leaving her behind without a word. The centre hadn't really been his doing – he'd eventually just given up and prayed. His return to Ballyk and Assumpta's forgiveness had been partly him – he'd just laid his heart bare – but in reality, the Assumpta he knew would never have forgiven such a huge betrayal…Her survival had had very little to do with him; he'd just begged God, promised his devotion and ultimately his life…

Peter smiled and shook his head. He could see where this was going quite clearly now.

'Ok,' he said. 'Point taken.'

Sam nodded. 'It's the only way I've survived, Peter. And I'm fairly sure that's how it's meant to be.'

* * *

Peter pushed the heavy door of the centre open wide, hoping the some of the limited warmth from the sunlight might help take the edge of the centre. He reached over and flicked the lights on, illuminating the dark hall.

He stopped, his jaw dropping.

'What on earth…' He trailed off.

'Ah, yes,' Sam said, coming in behind him. 'Well, you did make a deal with William Jones.'

Peter raised his eyebrows, looking around the brightly coloured hall. Large signs advertising everything from fast food to sports equipment covered one half of the hall. The other half was still bare. For now, Peter thought.

'Quick,' Peter muttered, before heading for his office. 'I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.'

'Nope,' Sam agreed.

Peter stopped, fingering the paint on the wall. 'I guess the community service is finished,' Peter said somewhat unhappily. He'd come to enjoy the time with the boys, and he suspected they didn't hate it as much as they initially had protested. Peter sighed.

'I think you've achieved what you needed to there,' Sam said, and Peter nodded.

'Oh, yes,' he agreed. 'But I was kind of enjoying it.'

'Good thing it's done. One less thing to finalise,' Sam said, watching his friend closely.

'Yeah,' Peter said absent-mindedly. The pain of his predicament was finally settling in, and it ached.

* * *

'Ah! You're back!' a voice said loudly. Peter looked up as Michael walked across the hall.

He grinned. 'I'm back,' he said, finally finishing fixing one of the nets. Michael reached out and they shook hands briefly. 'How's things?'

'Good.' Michael pointed to the walls. 'So I guess our community service is finished?' Peter smiled ruefully, shaking his head.

'I guess so.'

Michael frowned at the response, but said nothing. They made small talk about training until the rest of the boys wandered in a few minutes later, shouting their greetings across the hall. Peter couldn't help but smile at the warmth of the greeting, but he felt a pang of sorrow, knowing he only had a limited time left. He pushed the feeling aside and grinned back at them, ruffling Jack's hair and clipping Brandon over the back of the head in jest.

'So, how'd it go?' Michael inquired, a cheeky grin on his face. The boys all asked. Peter narrowed his eyes at the perceptive teenager.

'It went none of your business,' he said, and the boys all groaned.

'Ah, you can't do that,' Brandon protested. 'You have to tell us!'

'I don't have to do anything, Brandon,' Peter said matter-of-factly. Brandon pouted slightly and crossed his arms. The rest of the boys did the same. Peter looked around at the now mutinous faces frowning up at him. He raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to protest before shutting it again. He knew he'd lost.

What did it matter anyway? He'd got the girl, so to speak.

He suddenly felt an attack of nerves. Here he was, trying to get the boys to open up to him – and he'd done so, fairly successfully, he thought – and he wasn't being open with them.

He took a deep breath and sighed.

'It went…very well, thank you,' he admitted, struggling to keep a coy grin from spreading across his face. The boys all started marking ooh-ing noises and laughing. Peter just shook his head and smiled sheepishly.

Niamh carefully pushed the door to Fitzgerald's open, trying to keep a now rather-large Kieran's head away from the door. She twisted her way in, pushing the door shut behind her. She turned as Assumpta stuck her head out of the kitchen to see who it was.

'Hi,' she called before returning to the kitchen.

'Hiya,' Niamh replied, walking around to where Assumpta was cutting up some vegetables.

'Sorry, just a little behind today,' she said, carefully sliding some freshly-cut carrot pieces off the board and into the bowl in front of her. 'What's up?'

'Oh, nothing. Just wanted some adult conversation for a few minutes,' she said, nodding her head at Kieran. 'Baby babble is only good for so long.'

Assumpta smiled, and reached out for the chubby baby. 'Ah, don't you listen to her,' she said, gently poking the little boy's nose. 'I think you're the most interesting person in Ballyk.' Niamh raised an eyebrow in amusement, but said nothing.

'So, how's you?' Niamh asked, sitting down at the table. Assumpta sat down opposite her. She frowned.

'Fine. How are you?' Assumpta continued playing with the chubby fingers of the baby in front of her.

'Pregnant.'

Assumpta's head, which had been looking down at Kieran, shot up. Her jaw dropped.

'What?'

Niamh was grinning slyly. 'You heard me.'

Assumpta laughed and stood up, awkwardly hugging her friend with Kieran still in her arms. 'Niamh! Congratulations! That's fantastic!' she exclaimed, the surprise clear in her voice. Niamh grinned and shook her head. Assumpta's eyes narrowed slightly. 'Is it fantastic?'

Niamh rolled her eyes. 'It is. Just not planned,' she added. 'But I'm happy.'

Assumpta grimaced slightly. 'And Ambrose?'

Niamh rolled her eyes again, but the smile didn't leave her face. 'Dancing.'

'I'll bet he is,' Assumpta laughed. She grabbed Kieran's chubby little hand. 'So, you're going to be a big brother, then,' she said, wiggling his hand.

'I'm kinda hoping he'll have some friends across the road at some point too,' Niamh said, and Assumpta's head shot up for the second time that day – only this time, her face was more shock mixed with a hint of embarrassment.

'Niamh!' she cried, mock-slapping her friend across the arms.

'Ah, you're not getting any younger,' she said, and Assumpta looked horrified.

'I am not that old, thank you,' she said, handing Kieran back to his mother, and turning on her heel, desperate to avoid this particular conversation. 'And I have a business to run,' she added, busying herself with the coffee machine.

'Ah, you'll have someone to help with that soon enough,' Niamh said, the sly smile still gracing her face. Assumpta shot her another look.

'That's enough, you,' she said.

Niamh grinned, knowing she'd pushed her luck enough for one day. One piece at a time.

* * *

_I'm sorry it's taken this long to get another chapter out - work is eating me alive. :(_

_I promise I know where this is going; you'll just have to trust me. Like Niamh said, one piece at a time!_

_Any and all feedback greatly appreciated._


	41. Chapter 41

Peter grabbed the frame of his office door as leverage as he raced to answer the phone.

'Hello,' he said, slightly breathless from his sudden, unexpected sprint across the hall and into his office.

'Peter Clifford?' a voice asked at the other end of the line.

'Yes,' Peter said, not recognising the voice.

'Neil Horton, Manchester Sport. How are you today?' Peter frowned slightly at the mention of the largest sports retailer in Manchester.

'I'm good, thanks. You?'

'Good. I understand you run the community centre just down from the mall?'

'Yes,' Peter said carefully, still not too sure where this was going.

'We saw you and the centre in the news several weeks' ago, and we'd like to offer our support to the centre.' Peter's eyebrows shot up. Chasing sponsorship was on his list of things to do, but he hadn't made a lot of progress.

'Really? That would be great,' he said. 'What did you have in mind?'

'I understand you have several futsal teams and some martial arts training at the centre at the moment. Is that correct?' Peter was mildly surprised at how well-informed the perfunctory-sounding man was, but realised he probably shouldn't be.

'Amongst other things, yes.'

'We'd like to provide some equipment. Nets, balls, mats, that kind of thing.' Peter smiled; they desperately needed all of those things. He was getting tired of repairing the futsal nets every time someone kicked a ball into the net.

'Wow. That would be wonderful,' he said, before stopping. 'What's the catch?'

'No catch, really. All we'd like is to put some logos on the equipment, and it's yours.' Peter smiled.

'Sounds perfect.'

* * *

Peter put the phone down, shaking his head in wonder. He wandered out of his office, the conversation replaying in his head. It felt surreal; a telephone call out of the blue, offering the centre a literal truckload of free equipment. It was such a far cry from only a few months ago, when he hadn't even bothered to ask, knowing he would get nothing. And from only a month or so after that, when he wasn't even sure he'd _have_ a community centre.

As he sent a silent prayer of thanks upwards, a noise caught his attention. He turned his head towards the door.

'Ah! Peter! I was hoping to catch you here,' called the voice of William Jones.

'Where else would I be?' Peter asked, amused. He headed over to where William was standing, looking at the colourful variety of signs that adorned the western half of the centre.

'Not bad,' William said, pursing his lips. 'Jimmy did a good job.'

'Jimmy?'

'My nephew. On holidays from University,' he said dismissively. 'He'll be around tomorrow to put the rest up. Should only take a few days.' Peter raised his eyebrows.

'Exactly how many of these boards are we talking about here, William?'

'Well, we'll finish the other side of the hall here, and then there's just the roof to go,' he said, and Peter's eyes widened.

'The roof?' he almost cried.

'Oh, yeah. But don't worry, they'll be secure,' William said, completely missing the point. Peter just nodded mutely, knowing that nothing he could say would have any kind of impact. He'd had enough experience with William, and others like him. Besides, it was keeping the centre open, and that was going to have to be good enough for him.

William's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Peter. 'You're looking a bit better, Peter. Time away clearly agreed with you,' William stated. Peter's eyebrows rose again. How had William known he'd gone away?

His surprise must have shown. 'Sam told me when I rang about the signs,' William added.

'Oh. Yeah, it was great, thanks,' Peter said, put his hands on his hips awkwardly. He was loathe to give away more information just at the moment. Particularly when he hadn't even mentioned Ballyk and his future to the boys.

'Anything I should know?'

Peter feigned innocence. 'What? No, just visiting some friends. In Ireland. Old parish,' he said, willing himself to stop talking.

'Ah, nice. Beautiful country,' William said, nodding.

'Oh, yeah. Spectacular,' Peter said, nodding, his mind already on Assumpta. He smiled a little at the thought of her; a smile that didn't go unnoticed.

'I better be going; meeting,' William said, pulling Peter out of his reverie.

'Of course,' Peter said, shaking William's hand.

'Jimmy will be in tomorrow around 7,' William called as he walked toward the door. Peter did a double-take.

'Seven?'

'Ah, don't worry. He has my key,' William called, and was out the door. Peter sighed.

* * *

Peter sat on the steps of the centre, coffee in hand. He was sleeping much better – when he finally got to sleep. He'd spent most of the night tossing and turning, unable to shut his mind off. Everything he still had to do was spinning around in his head. Pictures of Assumpta and Ballykissangel would float in front of his eyes, teasing him mercilessly, offering no solutions. He wanted nothing more than to be there, with her. Back where he belonged.

A thought crossed his mind, and he snorted. Nope, patience was definitely not one of his strong points, and it was being sorely tested.

He sipped the hot coffee he'd been clutching tightly for warmth. Winter had truly settled in.

'Peter?' a voice called. He turned to see the small figure of Emma, Jack's mum.

'Mrs Carter! Hi,' he said, surprised, standing as she approached.

'Hi,' she said, smiling. 'How are you?'

'I'm great, thanks,' he said, returning her smile. 'On your way to work?' he asked.

'Yes,' she said. 'Jack said you'd been away for a few days.' Peter grimaced internally. The grapevine here was as bad as Ballyk.

'Yeah, just needed to sort some things out,' he said, realising that Jack may have spilled the beans about Assumpta as well. Emma nodded.

'Ah.' Peter cheered a little internally; maybe Jack had kept his secret. Peter turned as he heard a noise from behind. A short, stocky young man came bounding down the stairs, nodding to Peter as he turned and walked down the road a little, stopping at a large truck parked on the side of the road.

'Advertising,' Peter uncomfortably explained to Emma.

'The joys of the modern world. But at least it's keeping the centre open,' Emma replied. Peter nodded.

'Yes. I suppose. I just wish there was another way,' Peter said ruefully. Emma nodded, studying the man in front of her. He wasn't much younger than her – maybe four or five years – but he looked tired. Weary.

'Peter, forgive me, but you look like you haven't slept in a while,' she said. Peter was surprised at her honesty, but he knew he looked like hell. Still. A couple of nights' sleep wasn't going to change much, he knew, and he wasn't getting a whole lot more sleep anyway.

He nodded, not sure what to say without giving too much away.

'I've…well, I've had a bit on my mind,' he said.

'I can tell. I'm a nurse,' she said, and he nodded, her point clear. 'I don't know the situation, but have you considered getting someone to help you with the centre? You're here six days a week with no help. Plus dealing with the kids. It's quite a burden you're carrying,' she said.

Peter snorted to himself. If only you knew, he thought. He was used to working long hours; as a priest, you're never really off the job.

But her idea had merit; maybe it would be nice to have someone to do a day or two. Or even a few hours in the morning on a couple of days. And when he visited Ballyk…

He pursed his lips as reality dragged him back. Money.

'Sounds great, but I'm just not sure the centre has the budget for something like that,' he admitted ruefully. Emma nodded, understanding.

'Even with all that advertising?' she joked, and he grinned. Emma looked down at her watch. 'I've got to get to work,' she said. 'But think about it. I'm sure something can be arranged.'

Peter nodded. 'I will. Thanks.'

They said goodbye as Emma walked away. Peter sat back down on the steps again, deep in thought. It'd be nice to have a morning off, or an afternoon. He'd initially been happy with the long days and lack of break; anything to keep his mind off her. But now… Maybe he could afford a couple of mornings off.

'Mr Clifford?' a voice said. Peter looked up to see Jimmy standing beside him.

'Jimmy. What can I do for you?' The young man looked a little nervous.

'I'm sorry to interrupt, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with that lady,' he said, clearly nervous now.

'That's ok,' Peter said, standing and smiling. 'What's up?'

'Well, I have a mate who's just finished studying. He did social work and community service stuff. Kinda like what you're doing here,' he said. 'Only, he's only working a few days a week at this place on the other side of town, and he's looking for some more work. You know, pay the bills.'

Peter nodded, his mind working fast. 'Is he local?'

'Oh, yeah – he's probably about 15 minutes away.' Peter pursed his lips, thinking hard.

'Look, don't say anything for the moment – I'll have to sort a few things out. Can I call you?'

'Yeah, sure,' Jimmy said, handing him his card. 'My uncle made them up. I think he hopes I'll drop out and work for him.'

Peter grinned. 'What are you studying?'

'Law.' Peter's eyes widened.

'Seriously?'

'Yeah,' Jimmy replied. Peter frowned, impressed, before smiling.

'Don't tell your uncle I said this, but I'd stick with uni,' he said, and Jimmy grinned.

* * *

_I apologise for yet another huge gap between chapters._


	42. Chapter 42

Peter waved as he saw Sam come wandering down the street. He pushed the heavy door open, being careful not to slip on the now-icy cement of the top step.

'I hope the kettle is on,' Sam called as Peter walked inside. Peter grinned and headed straight for the kitchen, flicking the switch on the heaters as he walked past.

'I don't remember it being this cold in November,' Peter said, filling the kettle.

'No, it is rather cold,' Sam said, rubbing his hands together. 'I had a young woman visit me yesterday,' he said. Peter raised his eyebrows.

'Oh?'

'Yes. She was rather concerned about the hours you are working,' he said, and Peter nodded, understanding.

'Ah,' he said, frowning slightly.

'I think she has a fair point.'

'I agree,' Peter said. 'But I doubt that Mr Jones is willing to fork out more money.'

'It's not entirely his call.' Peter sighed, handing Sam his tea, and clutching his in his cold hands.

'I suppose,' Peter conceded. 'I don't think it's really mine either.'

Sam frowned. 'Why not? You're a board member.'

'Yeah, but…' Peter trailed off. 'It feels a little self-serving,' he admitted.

Sam shook his head. 'Ok, then look at it this way. At some point, you're going to move on. You need to consider the person coming after you as well.' Peter pursed his lips; he hadn't thought about it that way.

'We have a board meeting on Friday, and I'm going to raise the issue,' Sam declared. 'I think it's time you started taking care of yourself for a change.'

* * *

Peter fidgeted in his large black leather chair. He'd never even seen a board meeting before, let alone be part of one, so it had been a distinct learning curve. But they were coming to the last piece of business, and Peter's stomach was sinking lower and lower.

'Ok. Last order of business – a second employee.' Bramson sighed. 'I was wondering when this would come up, I'll admit. Sam?' Bramson looked over at the priest.

'I think a sixty hour working week for our coordinator is a little excessive. I propose that we hire a second person to take some of those hours,' Sam said.

Bramson nodded. 'You're only on the books at forty hours, Peter, but I know the reality is quite different.'

Peter nodded uncomfortably.

'It's unsustainable, not to mention against the law,' Sam said, shaking his head. 'And Peter is in charge of children. If something were to happen, and it came out that Peter was working these kinds of hours…' Sam trailed off, and Bramson nodded thoughtfully; he clearly hadn't thought about it that way. Peter raised an eyebrow at Sam; he certainly knew which buttons to push.

'I agree. Jones?'

William Jones pursed his lips, but nodded. 'I suppose. How many hours were you thinking?'

Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He hadn't really thought that much about it.

'Um, maybe Mondays? And another morning?'

'I propose Mondays and two mornings a week,' Sam declared. Peter's head shot around, a look of alarm on his face. Sam raised an eyebrow at him. 'Peter, we all know you're there from ten in the morning till nine at night some nights. You need some help.'

Peter pursed his lips but said nothing. Sam was right, he knew; he just hated this kind of thing.

'I think that sounds fair,' Bramson said. 'We'll have a look at finances, but we'll have to make it work. Got anyone in mind, Peter?'

Peter raised his eyebrows. 'Uh, not really,' he said, before remembering his conversation with Jimmy. 'But I may have a couple of contacts.'

'Excellent. I think we'll leave the interview process up to you and Father Johns, if you like,' Bramson declared, and Peter nodded.

The meeting ended at that point, and after a few minutes' brief chatter, Peter and Sam made their way down to the bus.

'You're rather proud of yourself, aren't you?' Peter said to the older man, whose smile had a distinct air of self-satisfaction.

'Well, it was my first board meeting,' Sam admitted. 'A success, would you agree?'

Peter just shook his head and laughed.

* * *

_Many thanks to the reviews so far - they really are encouraging and helpful._


	43. Chapter 43

Peter looked up as someone knocked on his door. A tall, young man of maybe 25 was standing in front of him, wearing dark blue jeans, a v-neck jumper and a grey jacket.

'Mr Clifford?'

Peter stood up and held out his hand. 'Peter. You must be Nathan,' he said, shaking the young man's hand.

'Yeah. My friends usually call me Nate,' he said, running his hand through his wet brown hair. Peter liked the look of him instantly; his smile was warm and spread across his whole face, and his handshake was firm.

'Great to meet you,' Peter said, smiling. He looked at his watch. 'Father Johns will be along shortly, so why don't we have a look around, and you can tell me a bit about yourself.'

Nate nodded eagerly, and Peter led him out of the offices and into the hall. 'Where are you working at the moment?'

'Oh, I'm working for the Council. Child services,' he said, his face falling a little. Peter grimaced.

'Not an easy job,' he stated, and Nate nodded.

'I love being able to help, but it really gets you down,' he agreed. 'I don't really want to do it full-time.'

'I can appreciate that,' Peter said, casting his mind back to the baby that had been left on his doorstep late one night. That story had ended happily, but he knew so many others didn't. 'So,' Peter said, changing the subject, 'do you play any sport?'

'Football, of course,' Nate said, and Peter nodded. 'I've played basketball – being tall helps – and volleyball, too. Again, the tall thing,' he said, and Peter smiled. He definitely understood the advantage of height in sports. 'Played a bit of rugby with friends, as well.'

'Excellent,' Peter said, pleased. He turned as he heard someone walk through the open doors. 'Sam,' he called as Sam made his way across the hall.

'Sorry I'm late,' he said. 'You must be Nathan,' he said, shaking Nate's hand.

The two men introduced themselves, and headed into Peter's office via the kitchen for tea.

'So, Nate. I have to ask. Catholic?' Sam asked.

Nate smiled as if he'd been expecting that question. 'I'm not Catholic, no; just Christian.'

'So you go to church?'

'Yes, I try to. The centre's not open on Sunday mornings though, is it?'

Peter shook his head. 'No, that's fine. Just Sunday afternoons.' Peter decided on a change of topic. 'Did you grow up around here?'

'Yes, on the other side of the city.' Peter nodded. His accent was definitely Mancunian in origin, but there was something slightly different about it.

'So, how do you feel about working with children and teenagers?' Sam asked.

'Great. My work at the moment is with children mostly, which is exactly what I wanted to do.'

Sam looked up at Peter who nodded slightly. He turned back to the young man, his eyes narrowed.

'I suppose the most important question must go last: who do you support?'

* * *

Sam stood at the steps of the centre, his arms crossed and his face thoughtful. Peter stood next to him, his face equally thoughtful.

'So, what did you think?'

'Manchester United,' Sam muttered.

'Yeah, well, nobody's perfect,' Peter replied.

'Hmm,' Sam said, before unfolding his arms. 'Other than that, I liked him.'

'Me too.'

'Well, I guess we'll see on Monday, then, won't we?' Sam said, patting Peter on the arm before heading down the steps.

'Sam?' Peter called, following him down the steps. Sam stopped and turned around. 'If this works out, I was kind of hoping to get back to Ballykissangel for a couple of days sometime,' Peter said.

'Of course I'll keep an eye on him, Peter,' Sam said, answering Peter's question before he could get it out. 'Book your flights.'

* * *

Niamh plonked down on the chair in front of Assumpta, who was drying glasses. Assumpta raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

'I'd forgotten about this,' she moaned.

'Well, you will have sex,' Assumpta teased quietly, and Niamh shot her a withering look.

'Just you wait,' Niamh shot back. Assumpta's head turned and looked at the few stragglers sitting around the bar.

'Niamh,' Assumpta growled, and Niamh shrugged.

'Ah, they don't know anything,' she said miserably. 'I think I'm going to throw up.'

Assumpta's eyes widened. 'Not on my carpet you're not,' she protested, looking alarmed. Niamh shot her a look.

'Thanks for your concern.'

'I'm concerned. I'm just concerned about my carpet as well.' Niamh rolled her eyes.

'Any news?'

Assumpta frowned. 'About what?'

Niamh frowned back. 'Peter,' she said quietly but deliberately. Assumpta shot a glance down the bar again, but her patrons were clearly more interested in their beers and papers than her. She sighed.

'He's still trying to sort things out. It's only been a few weeks, Niamh. It's going to take a while.'

Niamh frowned. 'Why? Can't he just find someone else to manage the place?'

Assumpta glared at her. 'No, Niamh, he can't just find someone else,' she said, frustrated. 'He doesn't want to just up and leave. He doesn't want to let them down.' She knew she was biting Niamh's head off a little too much, but she was frustrated. It felt like yet another hurdle for them to overcome, another obstacle in the way. She was tired of them. And impatient. She didn't really want to admit to herself just how much she missed him.

Niamh sighed. 'Always the martyr, he is.'

Assumpta shot her a look. Niamh raised her eyebrows.

'How he fell for you I'll never know,' Niamh muttered. Assumpta glared at her, stopping what she was doing. Niamh just grinned slyly back.

'Assumpta Fitzgerald and a Catholic priest. And they say miracles have ceased.'

* * *

_Sorry for the delay! Work, shmerk. _

_Any and all feedback is still muchly appreciated._


	44. Chapter 44

Peter grinned to himself as he walked up the icy street; on the steps of the community centre sat a tall young man with messy brown hair.

He was keen, he'd give him that.

'Good morning,' he called.

'Morning,' Nate replied, standing. He rubbed his hands together. 'It's going to be a cold one.'

Peter nodded and looked up at the sky. 'Sure is,' he said. 'Let's get inside.'

They spent the day going through procedures, discussing how things worked, the various groups that met in the centre, and finally, the sporting teams. Mondays were fairly quiet at the centre, at least until after school, and Peter used it as a catch-up day.

It was so far so good with the new employee; he asked lots of questions and listened carefully. Peter had to keep reminding himself not to get his hopes up – it was day one, and he hadn't even met anyone yet. Eventually, after a late lunch break and a couple of hours going over the equipment and fixing what was broken, Peter heard a familiar group of voices in the hall.

'Oi! Peter! Where are you?' Jack yelled.

'In here,' he called back, looking over at Nate. 'Futsal training,' he explained. 'You'll get to meet some of our local boys.'

'Great,' Nate said, grinning. Peter turned and stood up, wiping his dirty hands on a towel. Jack stuck his head around the door of the storage shed.

'What are you doing?'

'Fixing the stuff you break,' Peter teased, and Jack frowned.

'We don't break stuff!' he protested. 'Well, ok, not much,' he conceded. 'Who's he?' he said, pointing at Nate.

'He,' Peter started, clipping Jack over the back of the head, 'is Nate. He's going to be working here a few days a week. And hopefully he'll have more success with you than I have with your manners,' he said, and Jack grinned.

'Not likely,' he replied, a cheeky grin across his face. He ducked as Peter swiped at the back of his head, grinning himself.

Nate stepped forward and stuck out his hand. 'Nice to meet you.' Jack looked him up and down for a second, before shaking his hand. 'Jack.'

'I hear you play football,' Nate said. Jack eyed him before answering.

'Yeah.'

'Peter says you're good,' he added.

'Yeah,' Jack said, and Peter rolled his eyes. He grabbed Jack's shoulders.

'You should be running,' he said, turning the boy by the shoulders and pushing him out of the room. Peter turned back to Nate and rolled his eyes. 'Once you get to know them, they're a great group.'

Nate grinned. 'Ah, he's just a teenager.'

'He sure is.' Peter grimaced slightly. 'And he's probably the easiest of the lot, really.'

Peter turned as a chorus of voices yelled their greeting as they ran past the door. He turned back to Nate. 'Let's meet the rest.'

They headed out into the centre. Peter watched as the boys tried to subtly examine the newcomer, each failing spectacularly. Michael seemed to be the only one who was actually focussed on running.

They finished their ten laps of the centre and formed a group in front of Peter and Nate. Peter recognised it as the same arrangement that had confronted him when they'd discovered the centre was being sold; although, their faces were less resentful and angry, and more judgemental. He just shook his head slightly.

'Boys, this is Nate. He'll be working here on Mondays, and another couple of mornings a week.'

Unsurprisingly, Michael spoke first, his face hard. 'Why?'

'Because I need a bit of a break,' Peter said honestly. 'I just can't keep up the hours I'm doing at the moment.'

Michael's face didn't change. 'Who's going to do training then?'

'I will, but we'll need to change Mondays to another day.' The tension was palpable, but Peter wasn't worried. He knew it would take time for the boys to trust Nate, as they had Peter. And that he – and Nate – would have to be careful.

'Can we train now?' he asked. Michael's face was still hard, and the rest of the boys said nothing. 'Ok. Push-ups, sit-ups, and lunges – three sets of twenty. Go.' The boys started moving slowly, which irritated Peter slightly. 'If you haven't started in the next ten seconds, I'll double it,' he said loudly, feigning nonchalance. It worked; the boys were on the ground in a few seconds.

* * *

Training was going to plan; the boys were working hard, and Peter liked to reward them at the end with a game, conditional on their behaviour throughout training.

Without thinking, Peter put himself in goal at one end, and Brandon at the other. Things were going well, until the ball came Peter's way. He stuck out his hand to stop it, and immediately regretted it.

It was a second before his brain registered the pain. It was like his hand exploded; an electric shock in his palm that radiated down through his fingers. He fell to the floor in pain, gripping his wrist, desperate to hold his aching hand, but not daring to touch it.

The boys were at his side instantly. 'You ok? What happened?'

Peter tried to calm himself down a little so as to not panic the boys. 'It's ok. I'm ok,' he forced himself to say, but he knew he wasn't. Nate suddenly appeared with an icepack in hand, passing it to Peter.

'Found it in the freezer. Put it on,' he said, wrapping it in a towel. Peter took it and gingerly placed it on his throbbing hand.

'Guess I'm not quite ready to play keeper yet,' he joked, and the boys visibly relaxed a little. Peter stood, resting his hand on the icepack.

'I could stand in, if you want,' Nate offered. The boys all looked at him, and back at Peter.

'Sure, if you want to,' Peter said, figuring it couldn't hurt. It would make the teams even again. Besides, it'd be a good way to force the boys to interact with Nate.

Peter just prayed they went easy on him.

He gently pulled the glove off his now-swollen hand, and handed them both to Nate, who had pulled his jumper off. 'Good luck,' he muttered to Nate, out of the boys' earshot.

'Thanks,' he said, and Peter saw nerves on his face for the first time. Peter walked over to the edge of the court and started pacing, cradling his throbbing hand and silently praying that things would go well.

Nate lined up in the goalmouth, ready to receive whatever came his way. Peter wondered if he'd take a typical goalie's role and bark orders at the boys, or whether or not he'd keep his mouth shut, not wanting to overstep his welcome.

Michael kicked off, and the game began. Nate stayed silent, just watching and waiting. There was a tussle in the middle, and Michael managed to get the ball up the other end to Jonno, who stopped, turned, and kicked it at the goal-mouth. Nate did a quick side-step and grabbed it, throwing it down the court to a waiting Simon.

The game went on much like that, with Nate staying fairly quiet unless he was calling out to a boy he was passing it to. He didn't concede a goal all game, much to Michael's growing irritation. Peter watched his oldest charge carefully, but said nothing about it; he restricted himself to yelling directions where needed.

Eventually, Michael got within about a metre of the goal mouth and deliberately kicked it straight at Nate's head. Nate saw it coming, and managed to get his hands up in time, deflecting it away. Peter's heart sank; he would have to deal with that.

'Michael! Off. Now,' he said, pointing to the chair. But Michael had beaten him, and was walking away – straight to the door. Peter realised what he was doing, and called out after him, but Michael didn't stop. The boys all watched him go, unsure of what to do. Peter sighed.

'Cooldown run. Ten laps. Go,' he said. The boys were slow to move, still looking between the door, Peter and Nate. It was enough to push him over the edge: Peter exploded. 'GO!' he yelled, and the boys all turned to look at him in shock before taking off around the hall. Nate headed over to where Peter was now sitting.

'I'm sorry,' he said, and Peter shook his head, his face pensive.

'No, I'm sorry. That was unacceptable. I'll deal with him,' he said, turning to look at the door that the teenager had just walked out. 'Something's up with him,' he said pensively, waving Nate's concerns away. 'I really appreciate you helping out.'

'How's the hand?' Nate asked, pointing to Peter's now red – and slowly turning to purple – hand. Peter grimaced.

'It had been healing,' he said, turning it over, trying to extend the fingers. He gave up quickly. 'I broke it a couple of months' back,' he explained.

'Ah.'

'Yeah.' Peter sighed. It hadn't hurt for days, and Peter had almost forgotten about it. The bruising had been fading from a dark purple to a yellow, an experience Peter knew he was going to endure again after his antics this evening.

The boys congregated in front of Peter, panting hard, none of them looking Peter in the eye. Peter sighed quietly.

'See you Wednesday,' he said quietly, and the boys walked quickly off, as if expecting Peter to change his mind and call them back for some kind of group punishment.

Peter sighed heavily as he watched them race out the door. 'Ah, I think it's time for a cup of tea,' he said, thinking ruefully that he'd love nothing more than to pull up a stool at Fitzgerald's and sip a long, cold lager whilst talking to the beautiful publican. He felt a pang of sadness at the thought of her, but pushed the thought away quickly. He couldn't dwell on her, on how much he missed her – he had things to do here.

Peter flicked the switch on the kettle and leant against the counter. 'So, what do you think?' he said, watching Nate for his reaction.

To Peter's surprise, Nate grinned. 'I love it. It's great,' he said. 'You have such an opportunity with these boys, and you've obviously developed a great relationship with them.'

Peter snorted. 'Most of them.'

'Ah, you'll never reach every one,' Nate said. 'Or so I've discovered. At least you get a chance to build some kind of relationship with them – really impact a life. You're possibly the only positive influence in their lives, and you get to do that almost daily.' He shook his head. 'I get almost nothing.'

Peter sighed, realising Nate was right. When had he lost sight of that?

Maybe when he'd fixed his sights back on Ballykissangel.

Peter sighed again. He knew he needed to finish his job here. He needed to get this right.

'You're right,' he said. 'Sometimes it's easy to forget.'

Nate nodded. 'I'll bet it is.'

* * *

Peter yanked the door of the centre shut. The hinges on one of the doors was going; he made a mental note to stop by the hardware store and get a new one.

Suddenly, an acrid smell hit his nose. He frowned, turning his head in the direction of the alleyway that ran next to the centre. He walked quickly but carefully down the icy steps of the centre and around the corner.

He squinted in the darkness. His eyes quickly adjusted, and he could see a group of boys standing down near the giant bins only fifty metres down the alleyway next to the outer wall of the centre. Peter squinted in the darkness; they couldn't have been more than 13 or 14.

He sighed and shook his head, debating whether or not to head down the alley and try to talk to them, or just yell from where he was. He didn't particularly like either option.

The decision was made for him as one of the boys spotted him in the light of the street light. He shouted, and the group turned and ran in the opposite direction. Peter yelled out after them, but they didn't stop. Not that he expected them to. He walked down the alleyway himself, quickly reaching the bins.

He grimaced as he looked at the butts on the ground. Judging by the mess on the ground around him, Peter noted that it wasn't their first time in that alleyway. He hoped it would be their last as he turned and headed back to finish locking up the centre.

* * *

_I'm so sorry it's been such a long time between chapters. Life has been hectic, to say the least._

_Bare with me; this is actually going somewhere. I promise. It's all mapped out... ;)_

_Feedback is always very much appreciated - it's nice to know someone is still reading!_


	45. Chapter 45

Peter sat on the steps of the centre, watching the occasional group of kids walk by on their way to school. He'd arrived at centre early this morning, hoping to head off Michael on the way to school. Hoping to find out what was going on.

He sipped his coffee as he watched them walk past, some noticing him and throwing him a wave, others walking along in their own worlds.

He'd spent a lot of the previous night tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Not that that was new, but the revelation he'd had at the centre – courtesy of Nate – had unsettled him. In his head, he was sure he hadn't given up on the centre, but he realised his heart had. He spent a good chunk of his day thinking about Assumpta and Ballyk, not focussing on what he was doing here in Manchester. The important task he'd been given here. He'd realised he needed to finish the job here, and finish it right. He couldn't leave on a bad note.

He had to do the right thing.

He suddenly spotted a lone figure stalking up the street, headphones in, completely oblivious to the tall man who was now walking across the street in front of him. Peter stopped right in Michael's path, waiting for him to notice him. Eventually the teenager looked up, his face hardening when he saw Peter.

'Hi,' Peter said. Michael tried walking around him, but Peter stood in his path.

'I'm going to be late for school,' Michael protested, not meeting Peter's eyes.

'I'll ring your teacher.'

Michael sighed, refusing to look up. 'What do you want?'

'Well, an apology would be nice, but I'd settle for an explanation,' Peter said. Michael glanced up at Peter's face, his own face softening slightly when he realised Peter wasn't angry. 'Come on. I'll make you a hot chocolate,' Peter said.

Michael stood still for a moment, clearly weighing up his options, before looking up at Peter and sighing.

'Fine,' he said, and turned on his heel and headed across the road.

'Thank you,' Peter muttered under his breath, before following him across the road.

Peter flicked the switch on the kettle, and turned to face the teenager who was sitting on the chair opposite him.

'What's going on, Michael?' Michael said nothing. 'I thought things were going well.'

Michael shifted in his chair slightly, his face falling only very slightly, but it was enough for Peter. 'Or aren't things going well?'

'My parents want me to drop school and get a job,' he said quietly. Peter's heart sank. Keeping the boys in school had always been one of his priorities, something he'd always encouraged. He knew the only way out of the poverty a lot of them were in was through education.

'Oh,' Peter said, not really knowing what else to say. 'Did they say why?'

'They say I don't need school.' Peter's heart sank even further. He'd hoped that if Michael's marks improved, he might be allowed to finish. But he almost 16; he could leave almost whenever he wanted. Or whenever his parents wanted, it seemed.

'What will you do?'

'My uncle has a garage, I'd go work there.' Michael looked quite miserable now. Peter frowned.

'I thought being a mechanic was ok,' he said slowly.

Michael snorted. 'Not with my uncle it isn't. His place is dodgy.'

'Ah.' Peter sighed. 'Well, could you go somewhere else?'

Michael looked up at him. 'Where? There's nowhere around here. This isn't exactly the land of opportunity,' he muttered. Peter raised his eyebrow at the reference, but quickly frowned again.

'Have you tried?' he asked gently. Michael shook his head.

'Not worth it.'

'Ok.' Peter ran his fingers through his hair. 'Will they let you finish the year?'

Michael shook his head. 'Don't think so.'

'Have you asked?'

'…No, but…' Michael trailed off.

'Ask. It's a long shot, I know, but the worst they can do is say no. Then at least you'll have finished your exams,' Peter said hopefully. He could see Michael was mulling the thought over.

'Alright, I'll ask.'

'Good. We'll go from there, yeah?'

Michael looked up at him, frowning. 'What do you care?'

Peter raised his eyebrows at him, the shock and hurt evident on his face. 'Are you serious? Of course I care. Why do you think I'm here?'

Michael stared at him, his face hard. 'So you're not leaving?'

Peter stared back at him, completely taken aback. 'What?'

'That girl you were talking to that night, on the steps. She was Irish. I could tell,' he said. Peter stared at him, open-mouthed. Michael hadn't let on that they'd been that close.

Peter's world suddenly came crashing down around him.

He hadn't realised the boys had put two and two together.

Michael continued, his face still hard. 'I saw you in the Mall that night, just after I saw you talking to her, but you nicked off before I could ask what was wrong. You had a fight, didn't you? And that's where you went – you went to Ireland to get her back. And you got her back. Only, you've come back here, and I don't know why.'

Peter stared at the young teenager in front of him, dumbfounded by the speech. He had no idea what to say. He couldn't lie and say he wasn't leaving – he would never lie to any of them anyway – but he couldn't bring himself to tell him the truth.

He knew, however, he would have to.

His heart sank even lower, and he rubbed his face with his good hand.

'Michael,' he started. He watched the young man's face harden even further.

'You _are_ leaving,' he said, grabbing his bag. 'I knew it.' He turned and stormed out, hurling his bag over his shoulder and running across the hall, ignoring Peter's calls to come back.

Peter stopped at the top step of the centre and watched him run down the street. He felt a surge of anger instantly rise up inside of him, and he hit the door with the palm of his good hand. He hadn't wanted things to end this way; he'd wanted to explain to them all, in his own time, and in his own way, so they hopefully didn't feel betrayed. Or worse, deserted.

Evidently, Peter thought, that wasn't going to happen.

He turned and sat on the floor against the door, rubbing his face. Just when things seemed to be working out, everything had started to fall apart again.

* * *

_Two chapters in two days! Gee, I spoil you lot. ;)_

_Thankyou for all the wonderful feedback - I really appreciate it. It's nice to know people are still reading, even after all this time! Feel free to keep it coming!_


	46. Chapter 46

Peter waited tensely, barely noticing the hard plastic of the chair. Nate had been there that morning following Peter around and learning the ropes, but Peter had been distracted, thinking ahead to that night's training. What he'd say to the boys when they came.

If they came.

He sat on the chair, fidgeting. It was four o'clock; they'd be here any minute.

If they were coming.

Peter banished the thought. They would come. If for nothing else but an explanation. They'd shown up when they'd thought the centre was closing, and he hadn't let them down. Chances were they'd show up again.

Peter knew he had just one option.

He prayed.

He eventually stood up and started pacing. His stomach was in knots, and he felt sick. Everything he'd worked so hard for threatened to vanish in front of him if today didn't go well.

His head turned automatically at the sound of voices on the steps of the centre. It was Jack and Simon, and they raced in, both breathless when they arrived.

'Beat you!' Jack crowed before falling on the floor next to where Simon had collapsed. Peter stared at them, shocked. This was not what he had expected.

The boys lay there, panting, until Jack stuck his head up and waved at Peter. 'Hi,' he said, before laying back down again.

Simon sat up. 'Do we have to do our warm up laps? We ran all the way from school,' he said, still catching his breath.

Peter stared at them for another second before realising he was required to respond. 'Oh, uh, ok. Fine. Just get changed,' he said, waving them on. Simon raised a fist wearily and collapsed back on the floor.

Peter watched as the other boys slowly traipsed in, happily chattering to each other, stepping over the two boys who were still lying on the floor. They sat and pulled on their futsal boots, saying hi to Peter as they sat. Peter's eyes narrowed as he watched them.

And then it dawned on him: Michael hadn't told them.

Peter let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, and closed his eyes, a flood of relief washing over him.

He looked back up as Michael walked in, his face stony. His eyes met Peter's, and he held his gaze for a second before dropping it again.

Peter sighed. He needed to sort this out, and today.

* * *

'Alright, great job,' he said as the boys gathered around.

'Where's that other guy?' Brandon asked.

'He'll only be here on Mondays, and Tuesday and Thursday mornings,' Peter explained. 'Right, go and get changed,' he said, and the boys cheered. 'Michael,' he called, and the older boy stopped, turning to face Peter, his face still hard.

'We need to talk.' Michael stood there, not moving. Peter sighed, eyeing the boy who was staring steadfastly at the ground.

'Michael, why do you think I haven't told anyone?' Peter asked. Michael just shrugged. 'It's because I don't know what's happening yet.'

Michael's face didn't change. Peter turned and sat down on one of the chairs against the wall. Michael didn't move.

'You're right – I did go to Ireland, and I was chasing that woman you saw. I love her,' he stated. 'I want to be with her, yes.'

Michael still didn't move. Peter pressed on.

'But I don't want to leave Manchester. The centre. You all.' Michael's eyes narrowed slightly.

'I love it here, Michael, but I also love her. Do you see my problem?' he asked. Michael stared at him, his eyes still narrow.

'I don't know what to do,' Peter admitted. It was difficult to admit that he wanted both worlds; he felt selfish. Hypocritical. He rubbed his face with his good hand.

'You should go be with her,' Michael said eventually. Peter's head shot up. Michael looked at the ground. 'You always tell us to go with our heart,' he mumbled.

Peter shook his head in disbelief. If anyone said that teenagers didn't listen, they were dead wrong. Well, at least about some things.

'You have to tell them,' Michael said quietly, meaning the boys. Peter nodded.

'I will, believe me. Once I'd sorted this whole mess out, you were going to be the first to know.'

Michael scuffed his foot against the floor. 'Maybe that Nate guy could run the centre.'

Peter gaped, and nearly fell over in shock. 'I thought you hated him!' he exclaimed. Michael shrugged.

'We didn't like you much to start with either,' he stated, cracking a small smile. Peter stared at him for a moment, before shaking his head and laughing.

'Maybe that's a good idea. But let's wait and see if he fits in first, shall we?'

Michael's smile broadened a little. 'Ok.' His face sobered a little. 'You have to come visit,' he said, not meeting Peter's eyes. 'If you can. I mean, whatever,' he shrugged, trying to play disinterested teenager again.

Peter's smile faded, and he felt the sting of tears behind his eyes. 'Of course I'll visit,' he said. 'Besides, who else will help Nate keep you in line?' he joked, trying to lighten the mood a little. Michael nodded and smiled, appreciating the joke.

'I'm sorry you had to find out this way,' Peter said. He snorted. 'I'm sorry you figured it out for yourself,' he stated slowly, shaking his head. He stared at the young man in front of him, suddenly desperately sad.

'If you got a job, do you think your parents would let you finish school?'

Michael looked at Peter and frowned. 'I don't know. Maybe,' he said. 'Why?'

'You're too bright not to finish school, Michael,' Peter said seriously. Michael dropped his gaze and looked at the floor.

'Maybe, but I don't have a choice,' he said.

Peter shook his head. 'Maybe. But maybe not.'

* * *

Peter grimaced as he knocked the large plastic cast encasing his hand on the frame of the door. He'd put up with the pain for a day before finally succumbing and returning to the doctor, who had sent him straight off to the hospital again for x-rays. Truth be told, Sam had taken one look at his hand and had practically pushed Peter out the door.

Much to his frustration – and Assumpta's post-horror amusement – he'd been given the grey plastic cast to wear for the next few weeks, along with strict instructions to avoid sport of any kind for at least a month. The doctor had been noncommittal about timeframes, preferring just to raise his eyebrows and frown.

So he sat on a chair along the wall, taking a moment to watch the various groups around the hall. The martial arts group was clearly enjoying their new mat, judging by the number of times people were landing on the floor. There were random groups of girls around, playing with hair and doing craft things at tables, mostly run by a group of mothers, something for which Peter was eternally grateful. The front pavement-turned-handball arena was in use, although it felt like it was never _not_ in use. Michael and Brandon were up the back; Brandon in the goal with Michael taking shots. Brandon was getting better at judging where it was going to go, and better at getting to the ball, Peter noted, pleased with the younger boy's commitment. Michael was testing him, and Brandon was working hard to meet the challenge.

Peter watched carefully as a group of younger boys – Peter knew they were only eight or nine – slowly moved towards where the two boys were practicing, watching the older boys keenly.

Peter watched with interest. A couple of the younger boys had asked Peter if he would coach a second team, but he'd had to say no – he just didn't have the time between the team he already coached, and his responsibilities supervising the groups there were already running in the centre. He'd felt terrible; he hated saying no, particularly when he knew it had taken a lot of courage for the younger boys to ask, but he hadn't had much of a choice.

He saw Michael's head turn slightly; he'd realised he had an audience. Peter smiled to himself as Michael took an extra second or two before kicking and putting the ball in the top right corner; poor Brandon hadn't stood a chance.

Michael stopped and turned to the boys. 'Wanna learn?' he said.

'Yeah!' said one of the boys incredulously, and Peter thought he saw a trace of a smile on Michael's face.

Peter watched as Michael showed the first boy how to kick the ball like he had. It took a few attempts, but the boy eventually managed to get the ball almost a half a metre off the ground by the time Brandon reached it. Peter couldn't help but smile at the younger boy's expression; he was euphoric. Even Michael himself cracked a grin at the boy's reaction.

Peter's grin suddenly subsided as a thought hit him, and hard. His eyes narrowed slightly as he processed it; yes, it would work.

Brilliant.

He sent up a silent prayer before heading for his office.

* * *

_Any and all feedback greatly appreciated._


	47. Chapter 47

Peter sat on the steps of Mark's house, cradling a beer.

He hadn't done this in a while, but he needed to think. He needed some time out to himself. He felt claustrophobic. Stretched and pulled and torn into a million pieces. As much as he loved running the centre – working with all the kids – it took its toll, and there came a time where he wanted nothing more than to be sitting on one of Eamonn's mountains with only the sheep for company.

And maybe Assumpta, he thought. That would be ok.

He stared up at the clear sky. You couldn't really see a huge number of stars in Manchester – too much light – but he found the sky calming. Reassuring. If God could make that, then he could certainly solve Peter's problems.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself. He still had a nagging doubt that somehow things wouldn't work out. Something would keep him in Manchester. Something would keep him from Assumpta.

Assumpta would suddenly realise what she'd actually gotten herself into and send him packing.

He sighed and sipped his beer.

He heard the door open behind him.

'Geez, Peter, it's freezing out here. Couldn't you find a warmer spot?' Mark grumbled as he sat down next to Peter on the step. 'And it's three in the morning. I thought you'd decided on Assumpta over the stairs?' he joked.

'I like it out here. It's quiet.'

Mark snorted. 'As quiet as Manchester ever gets,' he replied.

Peter had to give him that one. He'd never really experienced true quiet before he'd moved to Ballykissangel. It had taken some getting used to, but he'd loved it. Loved being able to just sit and listen to nothing. To think, and hear nothing more than the occasional hooting of an owl, and your own mind. Even when his mind had turned to full-blown chaos – sometime around the time he'd realised that his time as Ballykissangel's curate was coming to a swift but inevitable end – he'd still enjoyed the silence.

'How's Assumpta?' Mark asked, knowing Peter had rung her earlier in the night. It was mid-week, and she hadn't been too busy, so they'd been able to talk for a while.

He hadn't realised how tense he was until he'd felt himself relax at the sound of her voice. Nothing much had changed in Ballyk, apart from Niamh's surprise – and still secret – pregnancy. Assumpta had apparently gotten her own back on that; Niamh had apparently refused to keep Ambrose in the dark about Peter, so Assumpta had quite happily told Peter about Niamh's pregnancy. He'd been stoked for her, but there'd been an awkward silence between them they'd both tried to ignore.

The elephant in the room had changed.

They'd never even really discussed marriage – at least not using the actual word – let alone any future children they might or might not want to have.

He'd realised just how much he wanted to marry her, and that made him nervous. Sure, she'd married Leo happily, but what if she didn't want to marry him? What if she was done with marriage altogether?

Peter wanted to do the right thing – he wanted to marry her, and soon. He refused to give the gossip mongers of Ballykissangel anything else to talk about. They were going to have a field day when he turned up next, he knew, and he wanted to give them nothing more to discuss.

He told himself that was the main reason – and it definitely was a big reason – but part of him was just desperate to marry her. To be able to call her his wife.

He didn't even want to think about children. He had always wanted them; he hadn't realised just how much he had until Kieran had come along. And then when Siobhan had fallen pregnant.

But that was not a conversation for today. Or next week. Or anytime in the very near future.

He pushed the chaotic and now distinctly unnerving thoughts out of his head and answered his brother's question.

'She's good. Busy, as usual.'

'When are you going for a visit?' Peter shook his head.

'I don't know. I can't ask Sam to look after the centre again. He's busy enough as it is. There's really no one else.'

Mark frowned. 'What about the new guy you hired?'

'He's only been there a week, Mark. I don't think he's quite ready to handle things on his own.'

'Well, why not in a couple of weeks' time? If you went down on a Saturday night and came back on Monday night, he'd only have to do Sunday afternoon. I'm sure Sam wouldn't mind being on stand-by.'

Peter frowned. Maybe it would work. There wasn't much scheduled on Sunday afternoons that he was desperately needed for. And Nate could probably run training, with Michael and Jack's help.

Michael.

'Mark, do you know of any mechanics around here? Decent ones?'

Mark raised his eyebrows. 'When did you buy a car?'

'I didn't,' he said, explaining the situation with Michael. Mark nodded.

'Hmm…there are a few, but I'm not too sure if they're taking on apprentices. You'd have to ask. I'll give you the ones I know, though,' he said, and Peter thanked him.

They sat quietly for a while. 'Peter, Mum left Sarah her engagement ring.'

Peter looked at Mark frowning. Peter didn't have any sisters, and Mark was the only one married, so Sarah had inherited the ring.

'I know,' he said, not really following.

'We want you to have it.'

Peter's jaw dropped. 'No, Mark, I couldn't,' he started, but Mark held up his hand.

'As much as she loves it, Sarah doesn't need it. God knows she has enough jewellery to sink a ship,' he almost muttered. 'It was her idea, actually,' he admitted. 'You know what she's like. She hated the idea of it just sitting there for decades in her jewellery box gathering dust.'

Peter stared blankly down the street. He'd briefly thought about a ring for Assumpta, but it hadn't been top of his priority list. He just wanted to get Manchester sorted, and then he'd think of Ballyk. That's what he told himself, at least.

'You are going to marry her, aren't you?' Mark asked suddenly.

'I hope,' Peter replied weakly. 'I just…I hadn't really thought about a ring…but Mum left it to Sarah,' he protested, changing the subject back to a less… troubling …topic.

'Mum only left it to Sarah because she thought you'd never use it. She told me as much when we were sorting out her will,' Mark admitted.

Peter stared out at the street blankly, old pain breaking over him afresh. He missed his mother more than anything; her calm words, the way she always knew what he was thinking. The way she had always supported him, even when his father had not.

And Assumpta…she knew how he felt about her, sure. But marriage? It was a big step. Huge. He wasn't even sure how committed she was to him – was she _that_ committed? It was a no-brainer for him – he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. But her? They'd had so little time together since his last visit, and somehow it didn't feel like a conversation he wanted to have over the phone.

He sighed heavily, forgetting for a moment that he had a companion on the cement steps.

'Peter, why don't you book to go down in a couple of weeks' time? You'll feel better knowing you have tickets. If all else fails, you can simply close the centre for the afternoon,' Mark said, knowing that was probably the last thing Peter wanted to hear.

'Maybe,' Peter said noncommittally, his voice heavy.

Mark shook his head. 'You have to stop being the martyr all the time, Peter. One day you won't have anything left to give.'

* * *

Peter stared up at the coloured glass shapes in front of him. The weak afternoon sun was shining through the stained-glass windows, reflecting a ghostly multi-coloured image onto the stone floor of the church.

He'd always found solace in the stone walls and wooden pews of the church; somehow he felt closer to God in a place devoted to His worship. But lately, when he'd run to the church, he'd felt…empty. Nothing. Like God was deliberately avoiding him. Although he knew that wasn't a theologically sound statement, the irrational, emotional side of him couldn't help but wonder.

If the last couple of years had taught him one thing, it was that if he wanted answers, he only needed to ask. God wouldn't let him down; He always came through with an answer, even when Peter thought He'd disappeared. But he had also learnt that sometimes the answers weren't the ones he wanted, and nor did they always appear as quickly as he wanted.

_Please. I've waited for so long already._

He put his head in his hands, the plastic of his cast rubbing sharply against his head.

He heard someone sit down beside him, but he didn't bother to look up. He knew who it would be.

'I think I'm losing my mind,' he said, closing his eyes.

'Women,' Sam said with a flourish. Peter looked up at him as if Sam was the one losing his mind. Sam just looked at him, eyebrows raised. Peter put his head back in his hands.

'Have you booked your flights yet?' Peter slowly lifted his head, his silence answering the priest's question. Not that Sam needed any kind of answer; he knew the young ex-curate well enough. 'Peter, Peter, Peter,' he said, shaking his head.

'What?' Peter asked, his voice coming out a little harsher than he intended.

'Don't you ever learn?' Sam asked, turning to face the young man. Peter just stared at him, and Sam sighed. 'Did you ask for some help at the centre?' he said, waving his hand generally towards the front of the church.

Peter frowned. 'Yes.'

'And did the good Lord provide – in the most unusual yet highly convenient circumstances – someone perfect for the job?'

Peter sighed and put his head back in his hands. He knew exactly where this was going.

'Alright, alright.'

* * *

Nate raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise. 'Me? Really?'

'Yeah,' Peter said optimistically, more to convince himself than anything else. 'You'll have been here for three weeks, and you've picked everything up really quickly. The kids like you, and there's really not much to do on a Sunday. Besides, Father Johns is just down the road if you need, and he's going to stick his head in anyway. You'll be fine.'

Peter couldn't help but smile at the huge grin that was spreading across Nate's face. 'Ok. Wow. Thanks.'

'You've earned it,' Peter said. 'Although, I do have one idea I'd like to run past you.'

* * *

'Michael!' Peter called as the boys raced off to get changed. Michael stopped and frowned slightly, walking back to where Peter stood.

'How's things?' Peter asked, deliberately being vague so as not to make him feel pressured to say anything.

'Yeah, ok. Dad says I got till January. My birthday,' he said quietly. Peter nodded, trying to make the best of the situation on the outside for Michael's sake. It was early December, which meant they had a little over a month.

'Well, that's a start,' he said. 'You've got a little bit of time then.'

'Yeah,' Michael replied, clearly not sharing Peter's optimism.

'I need to go away again,' Peter said, changing the subject. 'Just for the weekend, next weekend. I'll only be gone the Sunday afternoon, really,' he explained.

'Ok,' Michael nodded, and Peter could see a hint of confusion on his face.

'Nate's going to open the centre on Sunday,' he said carefully, 'and I would like you to help him run it.' Peter watched the teenager carefully, waiting for his reaction.

Michael looked up at him, confusion and surprise all over his face. 'Me? Why?'

'Because you know how it all works, and Nate's only new. Nate would still be in charge, but you could help run training, supervise some of the younger kids. And I think you'd be good at it.'

Michael stared up at the older man, unable to hide his surprise. Clearly, no one had ever asked him to be responsible for anything before. Certainly not something on this scale; something important. Peter watched as he processed this request, a range of emotions playing across his face – shock, surprise, concern, and fear. He waited quietly, giving the boy the few seconds he needed.

'Ok,' Michael finally said, a hint of a smile on his face. Peter grinned at him.

'That's great. Thank you. I really appreciate it.'

The smile disappeared, and Michael became serious again, nodding. 'Yeah,' he replied, shrugging. Peter sighed to himself as he watched the teenager retreat back behind the castle-sized walls he'd built up around his heart.

At least he was breaking through, he told himself.

One brick at a time.

* * *

Assumpta put the phone down, unable to completely wipe the smile off her face. She walked absent-mindedly back around to the bar, thinking about the phone call.

He was coming.

To say she was excited was an understatement. She felt like a schoolgirl, but she didn't care. She couldn't wait to see him again.

The past few weeks had been agony; knowing he was hers, but was still so far away. The few hundred miles that separated them felt as wide as the Pacific, and it might have been for all she could do about it. The almost-nightly conversations were like a soothing balm on an ever-weeping wound; they provided temporary relief, but did little to fix the problem.

But he had organised to come. Just for a few days, but anything was better than nothing.

And if he felt happy enough to leave the centre to the new guy – Nathan, she thought he was called – then things were definitely looking up.

'What's up with you, then?' Brendan asked, the hint of a cheeky smile and a definite knowing look on his face. Assumpta's face instantly hardened, and she shot him a sharp look. He just chuckled; he'd been subjected to Assumpta's withering gaze too often to be hurt by it anymore. Besides, he held the trump card – information. He knew exactly what would cause Assumpta Fitzgerald to smile like that, and it didn't have anything to do with the bar.

'Another pint please, Assumpta,' he said, raising his almost-empty glass to her before drinking the remnants of his stout in one gulp.

'What are you cheering for?' Siobhan looked at him, one eyebrow raised. Brendan smiled smugly as Assumpta gently placed the pint down in front of him. If looks could kill, Brendan Kearney would have been a dead man.

'No reason,' he pronounced, picking up his fresh pint. 'Just celebrating a fine Saturday afternoon and a good pint in my favourite pub,' he said, shooting a fresh glance at Assumpta, who chose to ignore him. Siobhan chose to do the same, and turned to Assumpta.

'Ah, so what's news, then?' she asked, folding up the paper she'd been reading. Assumpta looked up sharply, trying to hide her alarm at Siobhan's probing question.

'What? News? What would I know?' she asked, busying herself with the glasses in front of her.

'Ah, surely you've got some gossip to share with us,' Brendan said, his smug smile returning. She narrowed her eyes very slightly at him.

'Contrary to popular belief, Brendan, I don't have the luxury of gossip time. If it's gossip you want, then try across the road,' she shot back, before stalking off down the bar, desperate to avoid any further questions.

She busied herself helping with other patrons until Brendan stopped her at the end of the bar.

'You've got to tell Siobhan,' he said, the smug smile gone. Assumpta looked around furtively, ensuring no-one was listening in the semi-noisy pub, before answering.

'I know. I will.'

'It's killing me, keeping it quiet,' Brendan said pleadingly.

'Alright! I'll talk to her,' Assumpta said through gritted teeth.

'Thank you, oh gracious one,' Brendan said, mock bowing as he backed away and headed back around the bar. Assumpta glared at him as he made his way back around to where Padraig and Siobhan were still sitting.

And that, she decided, was the other reason she was so very glad Peter was coming.

* * *

_And this is the part where I apologise profusely for not posting any more in almost a month. Work. _

_Hopefully the holidays will afford me more time to write..._


	48. Chapter 48

Assumpta lay staring up at the cream plaster ceiling of her room, but her eyes saw little in reality.

Niamh's words rang in her mind. The irony of her situation was not lost on her. Her, the staunch anti-Catholic, and him, an ex-Catholic priest. She had to hand it to God, if He really was in control of the situation – He had a sense of humour.

She knew what they'd say about her. That'd she'd seduced him, the last bastion of purity in society. That she was selfish; she'd known what she'd wanted, and hadn't let go until she'd got it, no matter the cost. That she'd corrupted the incorruptible.

Maybe they were right. Maybe she had seduced him. Maybe she had been selfish.

Maybe, eventually, he would realise what he'd gotten himself into, and run.

She closed her eyes. She had to stop thinking like this. It only made her frustrated with herself, and angry. Angry made her heart rate rise, and heart rate rise meant longer on medication and more hospital visits.

Hospital.

She swore out loud.

* * *

Peter looked out the window at the brightly-lit city below. He bit his lip. He couldn't wait to see her again, but he was nervous. He hadn't brought the ring; now was not the time to ask. That would have to wait until this were sorted out, and he could actually make some kind of commitment.

If things ever sorted themselves out.

He chastised himself for the thought, and focussed on the lights that illuminated the otherwise dark tarmac that was rushing up at him. He watched as the tyres of the plane hit the bitumen and the plane bounced up slightly.

He slowly made his way out of the plane and up the path to the terminal. It didn't take long to spot Brendan's light-brown trench coat. He grinned and headed over to where Brendan was standing- cradling a cardboard cup.

'I knew you couldn't stay away,' Brendan quipped. Peter nodded, knowing he was going to get that all weekend. 'I don't blame you. Manchester just doesn't have people of this…calibre,' he said, pointing to himself and shaking his head in mock sadness.

Peter chuckled. 'Yup, that's it. I just can't stay away from your wit and charm.'

'Of course.' He patted Peter on the back as they walked. 'I suppose Ballyk does have some appeal besides me. I've heard the landlady could use a bit of help behind the bar,' he said, eyeing Peter.

Peter sighed, his face falling. 'I know.' They walked in silence for a while, Peter deep in thought.

'How is she, Brendan?' he suddenly asked as they reached Brendan's car.

Brendan looked over at his younger friend. 'She's ok,' he said reassuringly, and Peter relaxed a little. He knew Brendan wouldn't lie to him; he'd proven as much over the past year. They climbed into the car. 'She certainly hasn't lost _her_ wit and charm,' he said, dryly, and Peter smiled.

'Of that I have no doubt.'

They drove along in silence again, Peter staring out at the familiar landscape of Cilldargan. He smiled to himself. He was home.

Brendan's voice broke through his thoughts.

'What are your plans?'

Peter sighed. He knew he couldn't hide forever; for one, it was just getting too hard. Besides, most of the important people knew he was there, with the exception of Padraig and Siobhan, but they would be easy enough to drop in on.

'You can't hide forever,' Brendan added, repeating Peter's thoughts, when Peter didn't answer straight away.

'I know. I don't want to. I'd…I'd just like to see Padraig and Siobhan first,' he said, and Brendan nodded.

'I may have convinced Assumpta to tell Siobhan,' Brendan admitted, and Peter smiled. Assumpta had told him of Brendan's request, and they'd both laughed. He'd wondered how long Brendan would be able to hold it in, especially now that the two were expecting an addition to the friendship.

'I'm surprised you didn't tell her yourself,' Peter said, his tongue firmly in his cheek. Brendan didn't look at him. 'She's going to be very happy with you when she finds out how long you've known.'

Brendan didn't reply, and Peter couldn't help but smile at the distinct change in his friend's expression. Brendan Kearney was very well aware of the trouble he was in.

* * *

Assumpta couldn't believe herself. She was actually nervous.

They'd both decided she would tell Siobhan before Peter arrived, just in case she decided to pay a surprise visit to Brendan's place sometime in the next couple of days. It would definitely be a surprise – more for her than Brendan – and they'd decided it wasn't the kind of surprise they really wanted to inflict on a very pregnant and sometimes…quite emotional…Siobhan.

'Assumpta? You alright?' Siobhan asked, a concerned frown on her face. Assumpta's head shot up.

'Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine,' she stumbled out. She stared at Siobhan for a second. Now's my chance, she thought to herself. 'Actually, there was something,' she said, nodding in the direction of the kitchen. Siobhan slid off the stool she had been sitting on and followed Assumpta into the kitchen.

Assumpta shut the door behind her and turned to face the now puzzled-looking vet. 'Uh…tea?' she said, walking over to the kettle. Siobhan's eyes narrowed very slightly, but she accepted and sat down at the table.

'Assumpta, what's wrong?'

'Wrong?' Assumpta repeated. 'Nothing. Nothing's wrong.' She smiled to herself. Everything was starting to go right for a change. She looked up and grimaced slightly. All the conversations she'd rehearsed in her head suddenly disappeared. She absent-mindedly fiddled with the button on her cardigan, desperately searching her suddenly-blank mind for the words that wouldn't come.

Siobhan just stared at her, perplexed, but clearly concerned.

'I…well, I guess I wanted to thank you for being there for me over the last few months,' she started. She looked up, meeting Siobhan's eyes. Siobhan frowned for a split second, clearly confused, but then smiled.

'Ah, I did nothing. It's Brendan and Niamh you want to thank,' she said.

'No, you were great. Visiting me as often as you did, listening to me whinge. And I know you must have helped out here at least a few times.'

Siobhan waved her away. 'Truly, it was nothing. Nothing I know you wouldn't do for me.'

'Yeah,' Assumpta said, still not sure how to direct the conversation to Peter. No one had really discussed the ex-curate; well, at least not around her. Not that she was surprised. But it meant that she didn't really know how people felt about Peter, and that made things difficult. She wasn't really in much of a position to discuss him without giving something away – the publican and the priest had been hot gossip in town prior to her accident, and his sudden departure had definitely set tongues wagging. People wouldn't be honest with her. She knew they were protecting her, but it put her in a very awkward and rather tricky position now.

'How's the baby?' she blurted out, unable to think of anything that would lead her to Peter, knowing that Siobhan would probably not mention him unless she did.

'Uncomfortable,' Siobhan said. 'But fine. Growing,' she added. 'I can empathise with my patients a little more. I feel like a house.'

'You don't look it,' Assumpta said, her eyes wide. She meant it – Siobhan looked great. She'd barely put on any extra weight. Assumpta knew Niamh was a little jealous – she'd constantly complained about those extra baby-pounds she's somehow found so quickly. Assumpta had bit her tongue, resisting the urge to let her know exactly where they'd come from.

'I feel it,' Siobhan complained. She looked over at Assumpta. 'Alright, out with it. What's actually going on?' Siobhan asked, her eyes narrow. Assumpta glanced up at her before looking back down at the full cup of steaming tea in front of her.

'I…ah, this is all Brendan's fault,' she complained.

'Brendan?' Siobhan said, surprised. 'Assumpta, will you just tell me what's going on?' she groaned, clearly frustrated now.

'Well, it is his fault, actually. He was the one who talked him into coming back,' she muttered. She looked up at Siobhan, whose expression was one of complete confusion. Assumpta shook her head.

'You remember…that night?'

'As if I could forget it,' Siobhan said quietly.

'What do you remember?' Assumpta asked.

'Everything. It was the night of the Asian food fair. The lights went out, and you went down the stairs to fix them. They'd been going out on and off for days. You were only down there for a few seconds before we heard them blow…' Siobhan trailed off and looked at Assumpta. 'They brought you out on a stretcher. Michael said you were dead.'

'I was.'

There was silence. Assumpta sighed quietly; this was going to be harder than she thought. She'd thought that by asking Siobhan to recount her version of events that night she'd be forced to mention Peter, but she'd not-so-subtly avoided him altogether. She was going to have to be direct, and suffer the consequences.

'Siobhan, do you know why Peter left?'

Siobhan stared at Assumpta for a second, before shifting uncomfortably in her seat. 'No,' she replied shortly. Her eyes narrowed as she noticed Assumpta's expression. 'Do you?' she asked quietly.

'Yes.' Assumpta watched the information, and what it meant, slowly sink in. Siobhan just stared at her.

'You've seen him,' she stated. There was something in her voice that Assumpta couldn't make out; hurt? Anger? Concern?

'Yes.'

Siobhan let out a breath. 'What did he have to say for himself?' she asked, and Assumpta couldn't mistake the tone this time. Her voice was hard. She was angry.

'He left because he thought he had to,' she said. 'He thought he was doing the right thing.' Assumpta watched Siobhan's face carefully, her own being watched just as carefully.

It was a few second before Siobhan spoke. 'He's coming, isn't he?'

Assumpta grimaced internally. 'Yes.'

'Well, he's got some explaining and some apologising to do,' she replied, standing. 'If he thinks he can just waltz on back into town…' she trailed off.

'He doesn't,' Assumpta said, standing herself. 'He knows he needs to apologise.'

Siobhan eyed the publican. 'Is he staying here?' she asked, her question full of meaning. Assumpta couldn't hold her gaze.

'No. He's staying with Brendan.' She looked back up at Siobhan. 'But he will be spending quite a bit of time here,' she stated, her meaning clear.

Siobhan nodded, understanding.

'I don't know what he did to earn your forgiveness, Assumpta, but he's going to have to work hard to earn ours.'

Assumpta's face fell. She'd been foolishly hoping they'd just forgive him, welcome back with open arms. Well, maybe not open arms, but at least forgive him. She nodded.

'Don't worry. He will.'

* * *

_Thank you to all of you who are writing such wonderful feedback. Your feedback really does mean the world to me, and I consider each and every bit of it carefully. _

_More to come soon!_


	49. Chapter 49

Peter looked at his watch. It was late, but the pub would still be open.

They'd talked about his return; whether or not he'd just turn up at the pub, or whether he'd slowly start turning up at people's houses, working the individual tack. Assumpta had rather viciously made her opinion known, mentioning some of the things he'd done for the town, but Peter had talked her down. His departure had hurt people, and he needed to face them individually. And alone.

Assumpta had sighed, knowing he was right – he was usually right about these things – but she was still adamant. Anyone who wasn't ready to forgive him wasn't welcome in her bar.

He reached over and picked up the phone.

* * *

The phone rang shrilly. Niamh looked over at Assumpta who was at the other end of the bar. Assumpta dropped her eyes and headed towards the phone. Niamh continued serving the small group of tourists who'd wandered into the pub a number of hours ago, and were going to have to be carried out by their tour guide at this rate. She glanced at the tour guide – he wasn't going to be in any shape to be carrying anyone anywhere either if he didn't stop drinking soon.

She turned and looked down the bar to where Assumpta stood, hidden behind the divider. She hadn't asked, but it hadn't taken a genius to realise something was up when she'd arrived earlier that evening. Assumpta should have been walking on sunshine, but instead she found a grumpy, curt landlady. She hadn't had a chance to ask, but she could guess.

And she guessed again that she was telling the tall young Englishman on the other end of the line that tonight was not a good night to wander into the only bar in Ballykissangel.

Niamh sighed as she absent-mindedly munched on the chips in front of her.

* * *

Brendan sat in the corner of the bar, sulking.

He wouldn't have called it sulking if anyone had challenged him, but he knew that's what it was.

Peter had been right: Siobhan Mehigan had _not_ been happy with him.

He'd fought back – who was he not to help a man of God? _He isn't a priest!_ How could he turn Peter down? _Easily, after what he'd done!_ Didn't she want to see Assumpta happy?

She'd just thrown the handtowel she'd been holding at him at that one.

He took a sip of his pint, his face resembling a thundercloud. Even Padraig had had the good sense to avoid him.

Brendan sulked.

* * *

Peter sighed. He'd hoped that of all of them Siobhan would be the one to forgive, but he'd hoped a little too much. He knew he'd had things easy of late – with the exception of Assumpta, but that had turned out so well – that he shouldn't complain.

But Siobhan?

'Is she there now?'

'No. She left after I told her.'

Peter sighed. It was too late to go calling now; it would have to wait until morning.

Assumpta bit her lip. Raging further about ungrateful vets wasn't going to help, so she skipped that bit. 'She probably just wants to hear you say you're sorry.'

'Yeah. I hope so.'

Assumpta bit her lip as she heard a familiar laugh from the bar. 'Padraig's feeling pretty happy right now,' she joked, and Peter snorted lightly. 'I'll be closing the pub at eleven,' she added.

'Word has it you need some help behind the bar.'

Assumpta grinned in spite of herself. 'I'll see you then.'

* * *

Peter couldn't help smiling as he walked down the darkened main street of Ballykissangel, despite the icy wind that bit at his face. The only light in the street was coming from the lone streetlight, and Fitzgerald's. He glanced at his watch; 11:15pm. Knowing Assumpta, the bar will have been empty for fourteen minutes and fifty seconds. He tried the handle of the familiar blue door; it was open. He pushed, but the door wouldn't budge. He pushed a little harder, and the door gave way with a screech that closely resembled the screaming of a thousand tortured souls. Peter grimaced and closed his eyes for a second before deciding against more tortured screaming, preferring to squeeze through the narrow gap the door had generously provided.

He looked up to see Assumpta standing at the edge of the bar, grimacing herself.

'Ah, yeah. Gotta get that fixed,' she said, looking up at Peter apologetically.

Peter just grinned as he took two big steps forward and grabbed her into a hug. She'd read his mind, her arms wrapping themselves around his neck as he lifted her off the ground, the plastic of his cast digging slightly into her back. She buried her face in his neck, closing her eyes at his familiar smell. She'd spent the past weeks trying not to think about him. Of course, she'd been horribly unsuccessful – everything in the bar reminded her of him – but she'd tried.

She realised at that moment that there was nothing she loved more than his strong, warm arms engulfing her in one of his all-encompassing hugs. The hugs she'd gotten so used to in the short time he'd spent on his last visit - hugs she longed to spend hours enjoying.

'I've missed you,' she whispered, as he put her back down on the ground, not letting go.

'I've missed you too,' he whispered back, burying his face in her hair.

She pulled back and looked up at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. 'You look tired.'

'It's late.'

She frowned slightly at his avoidance of the question. It wasn't that late; he'd spent many an evening out later than this. She knew – he'd spent them at her bar. She realised he still wasn't sleeping well. She frowned, making a mental note to discuss it later.

His eyes roamed her face, his hand pushing her hair away from her cheek. 'It's good to be back.'

She couldn't help smiling a little, ducking his gaze. She wasn't used to being so visibly adored, especially not by someone she didn't mind being adored by.

'I suppose I should speak up before this becomes anything more than G-rated,' a voice said from the end of the bar.

Peter's head flung around.

'Welcome back, Father. Or should I say, Peter.'

* * *

_All feedback is greatly appreciated, and this community is particularly excellent at it. _


	50. Chapter 50

Nate took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. He knew he shouldn't really be nervous – he knew everything by now, and he'd even made a checklist for closing. But his stomach was dancing.

He turned Peter's keys in the lock and pushed the doors wide open, heading straight to the heaters. Even though winter had been a little late this year – the first real snow had only fallen a week or so ago – it was still freezing inside the old building.

As he looked around, the latest additions to the ceiling caught his eye, and he looked up.

Well, nobody could accuse the building of being lifeless. The advertisements were colourful. And _bright._ Nate knew Peter only tolerated them because it kept the centre open. And after all he'd given up…

Nate wondered if he'd ever be able to give up as much as Peter had for something so…intangible. Sure, the building was real, but it wasn't really the building he was fighting for.

Peter certainly had a tight relationship with those boys, particularly Michael and his group. He wasn't privy to the whole story, but as far as he knew, Peter had done a deal to keep the boys out of official trouble. It wouldn't have been easy for Peter either, keeping an eye on them. Again, he'd staked a lot on something that could backfire spectacularly, and painfully.

'Hey,' said a voice, and Nate turned his head to see Michael.

'Hey!' Nate said back, grinning. 'How's it going?'

'Yeah,' Michael answered noncommittally. 'You?'

'Good, yeah. Want to get set up?'

Michael nodded and headed over to the storeroom. Nate turned around to push some of the chairs away when he heard Michael swear. He turned around to see him crouched down and peering at the lock on the door. Nate walked over quickly, fearing the worst.

'What's wrong?' he called.

'Ah, someone's had a go at the lock,' Michael said blandly. 'Didn't get in, obviously.'

Nate crouched down to have a look. Someone had certainly had a good go at the base of the padlock, but without much success.

'Excellent,' he muttered under his breath. His eyes narrowed. 'How did they get in?' he asked, looking up at Michael, but Michael was gone. He turned to see him standing on a set of chairs across the hall, looking out through a window.

'Here,' he called. Nate walked over to where he was standing, and climbed on the set of chairs next to him. Michael slid the window open with a single hand – the lock was completely worn. Nate peered out the window as Michael jumped down off the chairs.

'How did they get up here? It's got to be thirty feet!' He looked down the alleyway, but he couldn't see much; his shoulders were too broad to fit out the window, and the window ledge blocked his view.

Suddenly a voice sounded from below.

'Here.' Nate forced his head out as far as he could and looked down over the windowsill. He could just make out Michael standing in front of what he guessed was an industrial waste bin.

'Kids,' Michael said, turning and walking back down the alleyway.

Nate pulled his head back and jumped down off the chairs, wiping the dust from his hands. 'We'll tape it up for now,' he said to Michael, who had just walked back inside. 'A bit of gaffa tape will keep them out until we can get it fixed.'

Michael nodded. Nate turned and looked back up at the tiny window. Despite his tall, slim frame, there was no way he was fitting his shoulders through that window. The question must have appeared on his face, because Michael answered it.

'It's not that hard. You just have to angle it right, and then do a forward roll on to the floor,' he explained. Nate looked back at him, eyebrows raised. Michael shrugged.

'Had some experience at this,' he said simply, before turning and heading back over to the storeroom. Nate stared after him, not really sure what to say.

'I'm going to ring the police and report it,' he called, and Michael turned and nodded.

'Not much they'll do, but I guess Peter would want it reported,' he agreed, before turning back to the storeroom.

Nate took a deep breath in and exhaled quietly. It was going to be an interesting day.

* * *

'And I suppose you want me to forgive you,' Padraig said, sipping his whiskey.

'I would like that, yes, but I understand if you don't want to,' Peter replied, sipping his own lager.

'A lot of people were pretty upset with you. Confused, mostly, but upset nonetheless.'

'I know. And I'm sorry.' Peter sighed and looked down at the golden liquid in the glass in front of him. He didn't usually make a habit of drinking at midnight, but when he'd seen Padraig sitting at the end of the bar, alone, he'd realised he'd need something to get him through. Especially if Padraig's response was on par with Siobhan's, something for which Peter had spent most of the last twenty minutes praying.

Padraig sighed next to him, and clapped him on the back.

'Ah, I know you are. I didn't think you'd have just walked out on us for nothing,' he said, smiling at the young man sitting next to him. Peter returned the smile, and nodded.

'Thanks, Padraig.'

'Ah, you're all right. But thanks,' he said quietly. 'Thanks for explaining. Was a bit of a rough time,' he said, motioning towards the kitchen, and Peter frowned. 'But you know that,' Padraig added. He downed the remainder of his scotch in one swig. 'Will I see you around?' he asked, standing to leave.

Peter nodded tentatively. 'Yeah. I just have a couple more calls to make, but then I'll be free as a bird.'

Padraig grimaced. 'Mmm, Siobhan was pretty upset.'

Peter frowned again. 'I heard.'

'She'll come around. It'll take time, but she'll get there,' he said, clapping Peter on the back again. 'Not jealous of you, though,' he muttered. Peter stood as Padraig whispered. 'I knew something was up. She was humming Carols in November. Her! Humming!' Padraig grinned and winked at him as Peter smiled awkwardly. 'Night,' he said, walking happily out of the pub, calling goodbye to Assumpta, who had strategically retreated to the kitchen early on.

She emerged from the kitchen calling goodbye in return, and looked down the bar at the approaching figure.

'You ok?'

'Yeah. He's good. I think, like most people, he just wanted an explanation,' Peter said, looking out the door Padraig had just left by.

'You're just lucky they loved you so much,' Assumpta muttered before turning and heading back into the kitchen.

'They?' Peter said, following her. She turned, her eyebrow raised. He held his arms wide, expecting an answer. She swatted at him, a wry grin on her face, and grabbed a glass to dry.

Assumpta stared at the dying embers in the fireplace in front of her, her head resting against Peter's shoulder. Occasionally the embers would spark and flicker; last ditch attempts at staying alive. She ran her hand over his plastic brace, shaking her head.

'Boys,' she muttered, and he poked her with his finger. 'When does it come off?'

'In a couple of weeks' time, hopefully. The doctor was not as…sympathetic…this time,' he added, and she smiled.

'I'm not surprised. I wouldn't have been either.'

'Of course not.'

She chuckled at his response, before her minded drifted back to Ballyk.

'Who else are you going to visit?' she asked, not moving. She was far too comfortable lying against him, his arms wrapped around her, to move.

'I'll visit Siobhan first, I think,' Peter mused. 'I thought of visiting Brian, but then I thought I'd really like to see his expression when he walks into the bar next and I'm sitting here, sipping a lager,' he added mischievously. Assumpta let out a small giggle at the thought, and Peter smiled to hear her laugh. 'I couldn't really think of anyone else.'

She bit back a laugh. He looked down at her, curious. 'Just imagine Father Mac's face when he sees you,' Assumpta said, unable to stop the smug laughter that particular image inspired. Peter grinned.

'Yes, that should be interesting,' he said, craning his head to study the almost vengeful look on Assumpta's face. It seemed to carry a little more weight than usual. 'But I sense there's more to this than I know.'

Assumpta grimaced. 'You won't have the opportunity any time soon,' she said tentatively. 'He's been barred,' she added, and Peter stared at her.

'What did he do?'

'Oh, the usual. Opened his mouth,' she replied.

'Assumpta,' Peter started, his voice full of concern and his mind jumping to all kinds of conclusions.

'Ah, leave it,' she said, shaking her head. She stopped for a second, shaking her head and chuckling. 'Since when am I the one telling you to calm down?'

Her laughter did little to assuage his concern, but he did as she asked and let it go. For now.

He was sure Father Mac knew already; the church grapevine being what it was, he'd be surprised if he didn't know. But seeing him again in Ballyk…well, it wasn't a meeting he was concerned about, but he wasn't particularly looking forward to it either.

'Oh, speaking of visits,' Assumpta started, sitting up and turning to face him. 'Uh, I have a hospital appointment tomorrow, in Cildargan…' She trailed off. Peter studied her face for a second, trying to gauge what she wanted him to do. He'd had nothing to do with her treatment at all, he realised sadly.

She looked down at her hands, suddenly nervous. She started absent-mindedly fiddling with her fingers. 'I thought you might want to come.'

Peter's mouth opened slightly, surprised. He hadn't expected her to invite him along to such a…personal…thing. Assumpta took his split-second silence as disinterest, and continued on.

'You don't have to, I know you're busy. I just thought it might be nice to have lunch or something afterwards, but it's fine, really.' She babbled on, eventually stopping when Peter grabbed her hands. She forced herself to look up at him. He was smiling, his eyes wide.

'I'd love to come,' he said quietly. 'Lunch sounds great.'

Assumpta smiled, partially in relief, and let out a breath.

'It'll probably be pretty boring. They do all these tests, and it takes ages to get the results; you'll probably want to bring a book or something,' she rambled, and Peter just grinned. She was adorable when she was flustered. He waited for her to finish.

'What time?'

'Pick you up at 10?'

'I'll be ready.' She smiled at him, and he grinned, pulling her back into his arms.

'I feel sorry for you, really,' he started. She looked up at him, confused. 'Stuck with me for the whole day. How will you survive?' he joked, and she laughed.

'I'll be sure to take my medication, then,' she joked back, and he chuckled, pulling her close again.

They were both silent for a few minutes, before Assumpta let out a yawn. Peter looked at his watch.

'It's half-past twelve,' he commented nonchalantly. Assumpta groaned. 'I should go,' he said, slowly and unwillingly unwrapping his arms from around Assumpta. Assumpta stood up and walked over to the bar with their empty wine glasses.

'Sorry I kept you up so late,' he said.

'Ah, you'll be the death of me,' she muttered, before she realised what she'd said. Her wide eyes flicked up to Peter's, who looked slightly bemused.

'I hope not,' he muttered, pulling her close. She buried her face in his chest.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean-'

He cut her off. 'Assumpta, I know.' He kissed the top of her head, pulling her back so he could see her face. He studied her face for a second, before leaning down to kiss her gently. She kissed him back, drowning in the feeling. She'd missed him so much. She'd missed this. She'd only had it for a few short days, but those days were permanently imprinted on her memory.

The longer he kissed her the more he didn't want to stop, but the more he knew he had to. He eventually pulled away, slightly breathless, resting his forehead on hers, his hands cupping her face.

'I have to go,' he said, and Assumpta sighed.

'I know.'

Peter heard the pain in her voice. 'I'm sorry, it's just…'

'No, you're right.' She sighed again, knowing he was right. She wasn't interested in giving the town gossips any more fuel to add to the fire that was sure to start in just a few short hours. Besides, they weren't really ready for that just yet, she felt. She realised that she didn't even know how he felt about the whole idea, and her mind went wild at that point. She forced herself to focus on him; those questions would keep her mind more than entertained later, she knew.

'I'll see you tomorrow,' he said, his voice full of promise. 'No more hiding,' he said. She looked up into his bright green eyes, the intensity of his gaze briefly taking her breath away. He kissed her again, as deeply and forcefully as before, and Assumpta felt herself melt.

He pulled away, sliding his hands down her arms and wrapping her fingers in his, pulling her with him towards the door, before stopping and staring at the open door.

'How are you going to close this without waking up half the town?' he asked.

'Oh, there's a trick to it.' She let go of his hands and grabbed the door, lifting it slightly and pushing it forward. It obeyed noiselessly. Peter just stared at Assumpta, whose tongue was firmly planted in her cheek. She took a few steps forward so she was out of the doorway, but his hand snaked out and grabbed hers, pulling her close to him. His mouth crashed down on hers, and he was kissing her with such passion that she felt her mind start spinning. After a few moments he pulled away, surveying his work – a thoroughly kissed Assumpta, who only opened her eyes after a second.

'I win,' he whispered conspiratorially before walking out the door.

Assumpta grinned wryly and shook her head. Of course he'd use those tactics. And, of course, she'd fall for them.

For now.

Well, to be fair, she'd fall for them as long as she wanted to be kissed like that. Which, in fact, she was happy to admit to herself, was a very, very long time.

He turned and grinned at her before turning and walking down the street.

* * *

_If you guessed Padriag, well done! (And I know at least one of you did!)_

_Thanks for all the wonderful feedback - the fact that you took the time to type even a few quick words means so much. Extra special thanks to those who keep sending feedback so constantly - it really is very helpful!_

_Someone asked me how many more chapters I envisage, and I have to say, probably a few yet. We're definitely past halfway, but I get the sense that this could go on almost forever if I let it...I promise we're on the downhill run now. Just a few more key events I'd like to reach... ;)_


	51. Chapter 51

Peter looked out at the small house in front of him, summoning the courage to get out of the car and face what was inside. Brendan had already rung to check she was there, under the pretence that he wanted to see how she was doing – they hadn't spoken since she'd thrown the handtowel at him, and she was pregnant with his child – and had managed to wrangle out of her that she would be home until at least 8am.

So Peter sat in Brendan's car, rehearsing what he was going to say.

I didn't mean to hurt anyone…?

I thought I was doing the right thing…?

I was selfish…?

I was in love with Assumpta and she died and I made a deal with God and she came back to life and the whole thing terrified me so I ran…?

He mentally kicked himself and got out of the car. He let out the breath he'd been holding for what felt like hours, and headed over to the door. He knocked sharply, half of him wishing she'd been called out on an emergency.

His prayers weren't answered; she yanked the door open. 'Brendan Kearney, if you don't stop asking me how I'm feeling-' She stopped short when she saw Peter at the door. He forced a weak smile.

'Hi, Siobhan.'

She stared at him, her face a thundercloud that Peter fleetingly thought amusingly resembled Brendan's just a little too much. She looked down at his plastic-encased hand, and back up at him.

'I was wondering when you were going to show up,' she muttered, turning and walking away, leaving the door open for him to follow.

Peter grimaced as he followed her through into the kitchen.

'I suppose you're here to explain yourself, then,' she said, her back turned, fiddling with something on the bench.

'Yes,' Peter said weakly, searching for the words he'd spent considerable time in the last 24 hours rehearsing. They eluded him, and he just stood there awkwardly.

She turned to face him. 'Well?' she demanded, and he raised his eyebrows for a split second at her forcefulness.

'I don't really know where to start,' he muttered, looking at his feet.

'You could start with why you left without a word of goodbye,' she angrily, her voice losing none of its ferocity.

Peter looked up at her. He reminded himself she was only angry because she was hurt; she felt betrayed. Wounded.

Siobhan was a smart woman; only the truth was going to make her happy. Just tell her the truth, he thought.

'I panicked.'

Siobhan stared at him. Peter fiddled with the cord on his jacket; somehow this had been easier last night with Padraig and a lager. He suspected that may have had something to do with the alcohol, and the considerable amount Padraig had consumed. He hoped for a split second Padraig remembered the conversation; this wasn't one he wanted to have again. Ever.

He pushed on. 'I guess I could start from the day I arrived in Ballyk,' he started, looking up at her. Her face had softened slightly, her keen eyes still watching him. He decided on a different tack.

'Do you remember that night?' Siobhan's eyes narrowed, but out of surprise more than anger, which confused Peter, but he continued when she didn't say anything. 'Of course you do. Everyone does.'

He took a deep breath in and forced himself to speak.

'I'd resigned from the priesthood that day.'

Siobhan's eyes narrowed for a split second before a realisation of some kind – Peter knew not what – dawned on her face.

'You thought you were doing the right thing,' she said, her voice losing some of its edge.

'Yes,' he said cautiously, not really sure which question he was answering, but knowing it was the right answer to most. He looked at her still angry face, trying to understand.

'You weren't,' she said harshly, and turned away from him. Peter sighed and closed his eyes. She was never going to forgive him. She was too angry, too wounded. He shook his head, and looked down at the ground. 'Siobhan, I-' he started, before he realised what she was doing.

'Sit down,' she said sharply, putting a cup of tea down on the table in front of him. He stared at her in wonderment; maybe she would forgive him. Maybe God had answered his prayers. He sat down and grasped the warm tea cup.

'I know what I did was selfish. I know I hurt a lot of people. It wasn't my intention to cause so much pain,' he said, trying unsuccessfully to keep his own pain out of his voice.

'The town needed you.'

'I know.' His voice broke. He struggled to keep the tears from his eyes. 'Believe me, I know.'

'You left when they needed you most.'

The pain of his betrayal crashed over him like waves once again.

'Yes.' He drew in something that resembled a ragged breath. 'I ran. I was terrified, and I ran,' he admitted. He looked up at the ceiling, trying to maintain what little composure he had left. Siobhan said nothing, waiting for him.

'I let you down, and for that, I will always be sorry,' he forced out, taking a deep breath. 'I know I don't deserve it, but I'd like to ask for your forgiveness.'

Siobhan said nothing, her gaze fixed on him. They sat in silence for a few moments before he looked up at her. Her face was unreadable.

'You didn't leave us. You left her.'

Her words – partly revelatory, partly accusatory – cut through him like a knife. In that moment he realised that's exactly what had happened; he'd left Ballykissangel not because of Ballykissangel, but because of Assumpta. He'd left her, not them. To Siobhan it must have looked like they'd been merely a sideshow for him, almost immaterial by that point.

He told himself it wasn't true; the people of Ballyk were like family to him. They _were_ his family for three years. But she was right; by the time he'd made his decision, it was more about her than about the people of Ballyk. They just got dragged along for the painful, inexplicable ride.

Had they been that obvious? Had everyone known?

He drew in a ragged breath, the tears stinging his eyes at the memory.

'Yes.' He drew in another ragged breath.

'What happened?' she demanded. 'I understand everything else. I don't understand why,' she said, her voice still harsh. Peter shook his head.

'This is going to sound crazy,' he muttered, but he pushed on anyway. 'Has anyone told you what happened that night?'

He could see the muscles in her jaw tighten. 'Nobody knows what happened that night,' she said, leaving off the _you were the only one who knew and you left without even saying goodbye_, but he knew she meant it.

'She was dead. Everyone had given up on her. And then Michael put me in the back of that Ambulance, and she wasn't dead. She was still breathing.'

Siobhan's eyes widened slightly, but she let him continue.

'Before I'd gotten in the Ambulance, I'd prayed. I said to God that if He wanted me, He would have to bring her back. And I believe He did.'

He paused to let it sink in. Siobhan said nothing; she just stared at him.

'And so I left. I didn't know what else to do; I felt like such a hypocrite. I'd resigned that day, and that night…' he stopped. 'I was consumed with my own fury and grief, and so I ran, and I'll never forgive myself.'

He stared down at the tea in his hands, losing himself in the swirling water.

'That's one hell of a story,' Siobhan said matter-of-factly.

'It's the truth,' Peter replied, fixing his eyes on her.

'I believe you,' she said. Peter dropped his eyes and nodded.

'But you can't forgive me.'

Siobhab pursed her lips. 'So what happens now?' Peter frowned, unsure of the question. 'From what I've read, you've got quite a life set up for you back in Manchester,' she stated.

Peter nodded. 'Yeah, I'm still working that part out.' Peter glanced up at her; she had one eyebrow cocked, disbelieving. 'It's not as easy as it sounds,' he muttered.

'We watched you, you know,' she said, sipping her tea. Peter stared. 'We watched you two dance around each other for months.'

Peter smiled humourlessly, nodding.

'Ah, I'll tell you one thing, though,' she said, pushing herself up from the table. 'I'd like to have been a fly on the wall when you asked _Assumpta Fitzgerald_ to _forgive_ you.'

* * *

_I know, I know, I'm the worst updater *ever*. I'm sorry. I have written more, and I know exactly where it's going, if you trust me!_

_I don't know that I love this; I just couldn't quite nail it, but the more I fiddled, the more I disliked it. I hope it's ok!_

_Any and all feedback is very much loved and appreciated._


	52. Chapter 52

Peter looked up at the stone walls of the church, allowing the memories to wash over him. He felt like a stranger almost; a foreigner standing on holy ground. The church was silent; Saturday mass was over for now, and the parishioners had gone about their daily business. He looked at his watch; he had a few minutes to kill before Assumpta would pick him up. He stepped through the familiar doors of the church, looking around. Nothing much had changed, but he suspected nothing ever would.

He stopped at the end of the aisle, crossing himself, before slowly making his way up it, refreshing his memory. A memory of a time that had started in naiveté, and had ended in anguish. He sat down on one of the pews, looking up at the beautiful stained glass window that adorned the back wall of the church, so similar to the one in Manchester, yet so different.

Footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he grabbed at his cap, pulling it down, hoping they wouldn't notice him. It wasn't the time. Not yet.

'Peter?' a vaguely familiar voice asked quietly. Peter looked up; it was Alex, the new priest. Peter stood and smiled, holding out a hand. Alex shook his hand, and Peter shuffled along so Alex could sit down.

'Quiet contemplation?' Alex asked, and Peter smiled.

'Something like that.' Alex studied the man next to him for a second.

'You know you're always welcome here. Anytime. No matter what people might say,' Alex said quietly. Peter turned to look at him.

'Thanks,' he said, a silent understanding passing between them. _No matter what certain members of the town – or Father Mac – might say._

'Are you only around for a couple of days?'

'Yeah. I leave tomorrow night.'

'Ah. Enjoying Manchester?'

'Very much so,' Peter said sincerely. 'Just...wish Manchester wasn't so far away.' They sat in silence for a moment.

'I think I might start a series on forgiveness,' Alex mused. Peter chuckled, looked down at his hands. 'When do you think I should start this new and exciting series?' he asked, his meaning clear.

_The night I left,_ Peter thought to himself, but he knew Alex's meaning. 'You could definitely start tomorrow,' Peter said knowingly, a touch of resignation in his voice. Alex also thought he detected a hint of nervousness as well. He wasn't surprised; he knew what small town people were like.

'Tomorrow it is.' He paused. 'I'm glad you're back, Peter.'

Peter turned to smile at the priest. 'Thanks, Father.' It felt surreal to be addressing someone else as Father in what used to be his own church – what still felt like his own church, to some extent.

Clearly, Alex felt the same. 'Alex. Please. 'Father' is just bizarre, coming from someone like yourself,' he said, standing. 'Let me know if I can do anything.'

'Thanks.' Peter turned around and called after the priest. 'Join me for a pint tonight?'

Alex smiled. 'Be glad to.'

* * *

Peter clambered into the front seat of Assumpta's van, turning to smile at her. She grinned back, her nerves getting the better of her. Despite having known him for more than three years, she still felt that awkward newness of a new relationship, she realised. She shook her head, telling herself to stop being silly. To be an adult and just enjoy his company.

'Hi.'

'Hi,' she replied. He studied her face for a few seconds, before she dropped his gaze.

Nope, still felt silly. 'What?' She put the car back into drive and started driving.

'Nothing. Can't I be pleased to see you?' he asked, feigning indignance. Assumpta just shook her head, grinning to herself. He smiled at her reaction.

They drove along in silence for a while, before Assumpta spoke.

'How's Siobhan?' she asked cautiously.

Peter sighed. 'I think she's ok.'

'Yeah?'

'Well, she said she wished she'd been a fly on the wall when I asked you to forgive me.'

Assumpta laughed in spite of herself. 'Ok.'

'It wasn't easy though. She's pretty hurt,' he said quietly, the pain of her words still raw. 'She knows about us.'

'Yes.' Assumpta was pensive. She could tell the conversation hadn't been easy for him. She glanced over at his face; he looked troubled. The lines around his eyes seemed darker somehow, and his mouth was set in that way that meant he was brooding. She knew it well; he'd spent most of his last months as Ballyk's curate with the same expression. She hadn't realised at the time that a lot of it was due to her, and the rest to do with his increasing dissatisfaction with the church. A dissatisfaction she understood, and certainly shared, but knew it meant far more to him than it ever had to her.

'Peter, what happened?' she asked quietly.

Peter looked over at her. He shook his head, not really sure how to put into words what had hurt him so deeply. Was it the realisation that he had acted so selfishly – that he'd put his love for one woman – and his inability to deal with that love – over the needs of an entire town, a town that he'd been entrusted with? A town that he had grown to love, and had clearly grown at least a little attached to him?

It had hurt because it was true; it had revealed his character, and he'd been found wanting. He'd sacrificed the town for his own despair, for his own pain. He'd run away, instead of fighting. He should have stayed, and he knew it. He should have at the very, _very_ least said goodbye.

But he hadn't. And it hurt that Siobhan had been right.

'She explained why I left. In a way that I didn't even realise was true,' he said, his voice flat in an effort to hide the emotion behind it.

Assumpta frowned. 'I don't understand, Peter.'

'She said I left you, not them.'

Assumpta frowned again, confused, replaying what he'd said in her mind.

He realised her confusion, and tried to explain. 'She meant that you were the only one I really cared about when making the decision to leave; that I didn't really factor the people of the town,' he said carefully, but painfully. 'And she was right. You were the only one I was thinking of. And, of course, myself.'

Assumpta's heart broke to hear the pain in his voice. 'Oh, Peter. That's not true. You loved them. You _love_ them.'

'No, she was right. I cared only about myself, and myself in relation to you. I didn't really stop to think about my responsibilities.' Peter looked down at his hands. 'Not a nice revelation, when you're a priest.'

Assumpta sat in silence, unsure of what to say, or even think. She refused to believe that Peter didn't care about the people of Ballyk; he'd sacrificed so much for them. His time, his home, his love; even his own happiness for a time. Yet what Siobhan had said made sense; he hadn't really understood the depth of his worth to those people. And it hit her.

'Peter, you have no idea how important you are to those people, do you?'

Peter frowned, confused. 'What?'

She started from a new angle. 'Why do you think Siobhan's so angry?'

'Because I let her down,' he said slowly. 'Assumpta, I don't understand.'

'Do you think they'd be so angry if they didn't care about you?' she said deliberately, emphasising key words. 'If you weren't important to them? Why do you think Siobhan and Padraig and Niamh and Ambrose were so hurt? And Brendan?'

Peter frowned.

'Because they loved you, and you loved them. You were a good priest, Peter. You were a great priest. And a great friend.'

Peter stared at her, watching the frustration slowly leave her face as he began to consider what she was saying. It made sense, but he'd never seen himself as valuable. He'd always felt like an outsider in the small town, and he felt like he was constantly reminded of it. Add to that being the priest, and it was a whole different level of loneliness. He'd once told Assumpta that a priest didn't have the kind of friends you could talk to, invest in, really get to know.

But maybe, just maybe, she was right.

She kept glancing over at him, watching the information digest, willing him to understand. It hadn't been just her that had valued him. She'd known simply from their reactions to his leaving just how important he had been to them.

A fact that had clearly escaped him.

* * *

_Officially the worst writer ever. I am so, so sorry for the delay. The only explanation for my lack of posting in months is that I barely escaped the semester alive!_

_Your feedback is the only thing that keeps me posting. I really appreciate all the encouragement and criticism._


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